


KINGSMAN III: REDACTED

by FuckYeahHarryHart



Category: Agent Galahad - Fandom, Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kingsman Fusion, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gentleman Harry Hart, Harry Hart Lives, Kingsman Family, Kingsman Training, Original Character(s), Post-Kingsman: The Golden Circle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:55:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27747865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuckYeahHarryHart/pseuds/FuckYeahHarryHart
Summary: After the events of Kingsman, The Golden Circle, Harry, Eggsy and the rest of the survivors rebuild their agency to its former level of integrity. A new player arrives unexpectedly, carrying memories of the past that will change the future of Kingsman.This story came about when I was trying to devise a plot that would Merlin back for Kingsman 3. This is how I did it.
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 10
Collections: Kingsman Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because they better give Harry Hart a good story for the last Kingsman. In case they don’t, I wrote something myself. Because I’m both excited an afraid of what they may be planning. And I, as well as A LOT of people were pissed that they killed of Merlin, let alone all the others. This is my Fan Fic for what I thought should happen in Kingsman 3 and how they could possibly bring Merlin back....lots of Harry and some new characters, too..
> 
> Multi Part Series, Part 1 of a lot. First attempt at a long fic and fic in general. Here goes!

The evening was still warm and pleasant as the sun dropped behind the last of the buildings overlooking the London skyline. For a few brief moments, when the final rays of light glanced off the windows facing the west, the sky seemed to flame.

The sun struggled to hold its place, but as it conceded, the day began its transition into night. A new energy would begin to blanket the momentary quiet streets.

So the sun set on another day in London. Saville Row stilled once more as store fronts closed up and settled down for the evening.

Further along the walk, two gentleman were about to descend the stone steps of one of the shops. One man stood a little taller, a little older, more distinguished than the other. Both were impressively attired, as would be the case if they were in the company’s employ. But of course, this was to be expected.This street was best known for being the undeniable home of hand-crafted British bespoke - thus named because when customers used to choose their cloth it was said to "be spoken for". 

The older gentleman, the taller of the two, had broad shoulders and a lean figure, with long legs and a silhouette that suggested strength and movement. The younger man, though shorter, had a compact, sturdy build with a wide chest and a distinctly strong jaw line, sandy hair and blue eyes. He had the shape and movements of an athlete, and the personality to match. Gregarious, enthusiastic, like a puppy who was just beginning to grow into his paws.

It might have been the younger man’s youthful exuberant energy and confidence that caught your eye, but it was the older man whose quiet, distinguished gravitas that held your gaze and kept it.

As twilight embarked on its journey to introduce the night sky, the new Kingsman shop glowed with golden light among the dark streets of London. In the heart of Savile Row, the street was, perhaps, a bit too quiet.

The younger man was jesting the older in the manner of both a comrade and a son. And with the patience of both a father and the derision of an older brother, the man, resigned to be the long suffering confidant, obliged the mischief with a somewhat exasperated, but affable, good nature.

“So.” The younger man queried. “You gonna get one of them new Kingsman cars for your birthday?”

He eyed him with a sideways glance. “What would you know of my birthday?” the stately gentleman countered, skeptical.

“Know it was long time ago.”He chaffed under his breath.

“That’s certainly one way of looking at it.” He replied briskly.

“You gonna have a do?”

“Rubbish.” “ he replied, unamused.

“You should.”

“I will be sure to keep that in mind.” However, the quip in his voice and his doubtful expression suggested that he had already dismissed the notion as utterly preposterous.

They both took the steps down to the pavement and toward the waiting car. The new taxis, upgraded with first rate technology, were still in production. In the meantime, hire cars were made available for their use.

“When are the Kingsman cars gonna be ready, anyway?”

The older man he reached down to unlock the car door.He was about to reply when the key fob was shot out of his hand.

Apparently, not soon enough, he thought as he dropped down to the ground. Who ever had taken that shot was sending a message, and if the message included bullets it was best to fall below the line of fire.

More gunfire erupted, this time from a different direction. Mayhem, of course. He sighed. Would he never be able to enjoy a quiet evening ever again? Perhaps he was getting too old for this.

His expectations for a peaceful, uneventful evening were simply entertainment for a higher power. Every time one makes a plan, he thought reaching for his own weapon, God laughs. He would be sure to bear that in mind next time.

——

If the word gentleman were to take on a physical shape, that shape would look like Harry Hart. If you were in his presence, you had no choice but to look at him. No other option existed. It was as if there were an unseen magnetic force that held your gaze upon him.

Harry Hart was a man you saw immediately. He carried an air of timelessness. There was neither a sense of young or old. Nor future or past. He was both modern and old world. He was a contradiction that somehow made perfect sense. 

He was an arresting figure. From his dark horn rimmed glasses, all the way down to the impeccable shine of his black Oxford shoes. The immaculate cut of his bespoke suit emphasized the sleek masculine lines of his body and he carried himself as naturally and as easily as though he was born to wear it. 

The suit seemed to enhance his movements, rather than hinder or constrict. He presented a certain ease and grace of movement, as if the lines of the suit knew how he moved and thus moved with him. But even as he grew still, the suit would hang perfectly in place.Only a slight movement of his hand would smooth out his jacket or a flick of the wrist to adjust his cuff links.

He existed as if being Harry Hart was effortless. Without a hint of doubt or hesitation. A man who was never one to question his purpose in life or in his work. 

There was no denying, that even in his late fifties, that Harry Hart was a handsome man. Each individual feature was attractive, but it was the man, as a whole, that was truly beautiful. He was the kind of being that if he were to walk by, he would turn the heads of both men and women. All intrigued for reasons they wouldn’t be able to explain in words. 

If you asked someone in passing what he looked like, they would say he was handsome. But if queried further they would be curiously unable to recall any exact details of his physical appearance.

It was the rare quality of a person completely at ease in his own skin, who never doubted the reason for his existence or the meaning of his life. Who does not need or desire anything that lies outside the present moment. He possessed a rare, undefined quality that communicated without speaking a word. It said honor, integrity, decency and benevolence.

Harry Hart was the sum of all his parts.

Yet, one could not deny that he was a man of exemplary physical characteristics. If you had the opportunity to sit and observe him for longer than a passing moment, you would determine that his presence, his immediacy, was also due to the fact that he was a very tall man, a substantial man, with broad shoulders, slim hips, and long legs that were able to carry him with a grace and elegance that was inimitable.

Looking more closely, you would notice the pleasing structure of his face, clear, golden brown eyes below a strong brow and a smooth broad forehead. His hair was a light brown, made even lighter by the dusting of silver at his temples and around his ears. His hair was combed back and styled into smooth waves, but if left on its own you suspect that it would be a little wild, a little untamed.

He also exuded strength and power, but not in a purely physical sense, for his suit covered his body from the nape of his neck to the soles of his feet. These qualities seemed a part of him, naturally. He was not a man who worked out for vanity. His strength was not an end to achieve, in and of itself, but rather the means for a greater purpose. As opposed to the bulk muscle of a weight lifter, whose strength was inert, motionless, without purpose, whose power lacked a driving force. Harry’s strength seemed lighter, more balanced and suggested the movement of a precision instrument, guided by an expert hand. 

If, perchance, you were able to see him in his own surroundings or with people close to him, you would be able to glimpse the finer points of his character. 

That his clear brown eyes could see into anyone he chose to observe. He had the ability to maintain eye-contact with a singular focus that was unwavering, direct, sometimes disconcertingly so. He could speak as clearly with his gaze as he could with words. Or, if needed, close himself off to any inquiries that might not be welcome. 

But also, those brown eyes, with just a little softening, could exude kindness, warmth, and affection. Or at other times, a twinkle of amusement or mischief. Maybe a slight narrowing, a hint of displeasure, maybe concern, a glint of approval. 

Perhaps, in a quiet moment, you had the chance to hear his voice. Deep and calm, soothing even. Articulate. He was not known for his garrulousness, so the words he did speak were deliberate, communicating precisely what he wanted to say. Measured pauses of silence were often as eloquent as his words.

Surprisingly, he was a more quiet man. You expected his voice to be louder, but then you realized that his tone and his pace were calculated. He wanted whoever he was speaking with to be present and concentrate on his words. 

But just underneath the steady low, tones you could hear the steely vibrations of a more dominant voice. Just as his physicality suggested a latent power he only need to tap into. Never one to shout or yell to be heard, all he needed to do was unleash that forceful voice to ensure the attention of those around him. 

Unknowingly to those around him, all of these features made Harry Hart a lethal and ruthless secret agent with the ability to annihilate his enemies with ease. His mind was sharp and exacting, honed by years of training, experience in the field, and natural talent and skill. Combined with his physical prowess and his innate unflappable nerve, he was nearly unstoppable.

Yet, even beyond these features, could be found a hint of something more, a softness, a gentleness, a kindness and a vulnerability. If only someone took the time to look for them. 

—

In the hushed shadows of the evening, as the sky blackened and welcomed the night, a lone figure stood in the shelter of the darkness. A female figure, though it would be difficult to tell at first glance. Ambiguously attired in appropriate, but unremarkable clothing. A black knit top was layered under a roomy lightweight black gortex jacket, like a windbreaker. Appropriate for the moody weather of London. Dark grey cargo pants, sensible black boots, made for walking. She was tall and slight. Her features were obscured beneath the felted wool flat cap she wore. Which was her intention.

Her objective was to observe, and even so, remain unseen. To achieve this, she had to be unmemorable, forgettable, average, so she could continue her surveillance without raising scrutiny. Careful not to linger too long in one spot, she continued to move steadily in the direction of the two men. She remained within the shadows between buildings, in a store front, near a set of stairs.

She maintained her air of causal nonchalance.Under the pretext of quietly browsing at the collection of mens wear and accessories, she paused on the landing of a closed shop. As would anyone just getting off of work and arrived too late, after the shop closed and chose to stay and window shop.The two men were conversing as they closed up.

Keeping a close eye on her subjects, she simultaneously scanned for possible counter surveillance. Watching out for other people, watching her as she watched her mark. Recording all the people she saw along the street, the make and models of the cars that drove past, any subtle shifts in the temperature and feel of her surroundings. An aspect that appeared out of place, shop lights that remained on past closing, a delivery lorry that arrived behind schedule. Anything that fell beyond the edges of the routine she had documented over the past four weeks. Her sharp sense of hearing, honed to listen and analyse approaching sounds, vehicles, the footsteps of nearby people, their gait, speed and direction, would alert her to any suspicious activity that was out of her immediate view.

After all, Kingsman was a covert intelligence agency, performing under the umbrella of a bespoke tailor shop. but in the end, they were all just spies practicing tradecraft.

——

For the last fortnight, the routine of the two men remained the same. Surprisingly sedate and unremarkable. They would meet at the shop in the mornings, between 8:00- 8:30am. Opening hours were 9am to 5:30 am during the week from Mondays to Friday. Saturdays were 10am to 3pm or by appointment. Closed on Sundays. They followed this schedule diligently, which simplified her task. Perhaps there were some outings during the day for either of them. As the days passed, one indistinguishable from the next, she began to suspect that they had a secondary location.

It would make sense. Kingsman was their backstop, their front organization so they could keep their intelligence operations secret. Many individuals entered the doors to their shop. Some stayed suspiciously longer than others. After detailing the amount of foot traffic stepping through their shop, she gathered that they must have an ancillary site, or an annex, whether it be at this location, or somehow connected.

An unusual number of clients entered the store, but the corresponding number of customers did not exit the shop. With the size of the shop, the footprint of space that was available, she estimated there to be at least three fitting rooms in addition to the showroom, workshop, a studio, and perhaps a small living area. The shops of Saville Row were not known for being expansive. Most could be termed cozy if one was being generous. She highly doubted that the number of well dressed men that she saw entering the shop, but not leaving, were entertaining themselves with tea and biscuits and conversation for most of the day. However, at the onset of the eve, without fail, after she was able to distinguish the clients from the employees, one by one, like rabbits out of a warren, they stepped out from the front doors and disappeared into the city for whatever evening they had planned.

—

Her first fortnight was spent mapping out the city, learning its lines of traffic, communication and commerce, so she could build an internal map in her head. At sunrise, she was a figure on the move. Walking one day, riding the Tube the next. She traveled up and down the streets. She took the Overground, the tram, the light rail. But mostly she walked. She walked through the markets with their fresh bread and curries and trendy second hand clothing. One day the Tate Modern stood to her right. The following day she walked past with the Natural History Museum on her left. She noted how the morning light struck the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral and how the sunset on the two western towers of Westminster Abbey. She crossed the River Thames via the London Bridge and then crossed back by the Tower Bridge on her return. She walked from Piccadilly Circus to Leicester Square and then around to the National Portrait Gallery.

Though the sites were beautiful, she wasn’t sightseeing. However, she was, indeed taking mental snapshots wherever she went.

She wasn’t memorising routes.

She was learning the lay of the land.

She was following the flow of the River Thames.

She was reading the structure of the city.

She was noticing points of convergence.

She was looking for routine and repetition.

She was identifying patterns.

She sought out patterns from the cities routes to the naming of streets. If she had to go on the run, time wouldn’t stop so she could check her phone or ask for directions. She needed to know where she was going, and if she needed to, how to get back.Knowing where she’d just been was as important as knowing where she was going. So the same way she was mapping where she was going, she utilised a post-route mental street mapping technique to backtrack. Reliance on technology could be a weakness and she made a point to “go analog” when it was opportune. And if her confidence yielded to encroaching doubt, she always circled back to square one.

Always remember your training.

She was trained to look for signs of directions no matter where she was.

And to do that, she first had to establish a known point.

——

She commandeered Kingsman as her known point, a sort of home base, but for mapping purposes. She used it rather than her hotel since it was the main site of her surveillance. It was the logical choice. If she mapped properly she would be able to maintain where she was in relation to the shop no matter where she was in the city. Having Kingsman as her known point helped her connect the mental map she was creating in her head to the physical landscape of the city. If she ever found herself lost, she could use her known point as a sort of primitive means of navigation. All roads lead back to Kingsman, she thought with irony. For her, they actually did.

From her known point, she determined where north, south, east and west were. In any direction she went, no matter how near or far, she continued to add on to her mental map, making it more comprehensive and precise.The architecture of the city was invaluable. She used the landmarks to help her navigate distance, direction, and orientation. If it was a full overcast day, she wouldn’t be able to rely on the sun’s location in the sky to determine time and orientation. But if she knew the history of the city or how the architecture was initially planned, she could use structures as directional indicators. Studying which sides of a structure shows bleaching or corrosion could also help her determine cardinal directions or aid in maintaining a “heading” of travel without drawing attention herself, without seemingly wandering around lost.

Half of this knowledge she would never have to use. Hell, 99% would just be filed away, never to have an occasion to be helpful. But today’s preparation determined tomorrow’s achievement. Or, depending on her mood, as one “Big Ben” once said, “By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” Regardless of attitude, she had to be prepared for any scenario. There would be no second chances. She had no safe house, no handler guiding her, no fancy tech at her fingertips. Every operation of hers was a black operation. If there was blowback, she was the first and last in line. There was no station that she could return to, no case officer to back her up, no one to offer her operational security, no diplomatic cover, no plausible deniability. There was no protocol she could follow for what she had planned. She was acting purely on instinct and intuition and the intelligence that was already in her possession. It was all she had. SHE was all she had. _She was all she ever had_.

——

When she first arrived in the city, she was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the city itself, true, like it was a living and breathing entity. But mostly, she was overwhelmed by the purpose of her journey. Her reason for being in London. It was a delicate mission with an uncertain outcome and could easily be derailed by a single misstep. She was determined not to make one. Hence the extra time for reconnaissance and surveillance. Failure was unthinkable.

She had journeyed from Paris, underneath the channel, to London via Eurostar. The high speed train was clean and modern. It ran on time. She found the seats comfortable. The Wifi connection was strong and she had plenty of outlets to charge her many devices. She was pleased to avoid Heathrow, as she found the whole process of flying a test of her patience. When she arrived at London St. Pancras International in the evening, she collected her few belongings. Which mostly consisted of her laptop, two smart phones and a tablet. Securing her bags, she stepped off the train, onto the platform and followed the flow of arriving travellers.

When the station opened up to a huge concourse, she was greeted with the sparkle of brightly lit, colourful shops. An impressive range of high end luxury stores and boutiques, selling everything from perfume, to crystal, to gourmet foods. Bars and restaurants were brimming with patrons. Clinking glassware, the shuffle of plates and silverware underscored the many voices all layered within their conversations. Among the droves of people, there were the homecomers and those who were departing for their own destinations. Immersing her senses with the spirit of the evening, her pace subsided until she halted to a standstill. She was a rock that split the stream of travellers and they flowed on either side of her. She felt them pass by. They posed little interest to her. She asked herself, one final time, if she was doing the right thing. She stood underneath beams of the vaulted ceiling that curved high overhead. She witnessed all of these people, coming together, converging, merging on this one spot, this open space where paths meet.

She took a deep breath in. She took a long breath out.

She hoped that the path she had chosen was the right one.

Hitching her bag higher on her shoulder she stepped into the stream and disappeared within the throng of journeyers, the transients, and the seekers.

———

Back at Saville Row, at the top of the street, she spotted the front end of a dark blue, two door Vauxhall Corsa turn the corner. Twice now, she had seen the same vehicle drive past. The likelihood of the same car, navigating the one way streets and having to backtrack to come around the same corner a third time, was not happenstance. It might be the third most common car in London, but when the plate had the identical three letter identifier, HFK, it was not a coincidence, and in fractions, she was fully alert.

The length of Saville Row, from one end to the other was less than 900 feet. Which left her with only heartbeats to decide what to do. Asking herself “what if” would burn through seconds she did not have. That was a rabbit hole not to fall into. The best way to stay calm and focused was to decide what to do next. A suspicious car rolling down the street could mean anything, from something as simple and innocuous as a tail, to something as dangerous as a kidnapping, to an attack with possible devastating effects, if they had a VBIED, a vehicle borne improvised explosive device.

Clearing her mind of anything outside her assessment of the possible threat, she processed the information in-front of her. Having something to concentrate allowed her mind to remain focused no matter what was happening in the background.

Identify the problem. When you saw hoof prints, you thought horse, not zebra. The circumstances were less than ideal for a kidnapping; the vehicle too small, the street too prominent, two targets rather than one. For a VBIED, while it could be a VERY effective way to eliminate two targets at once, unless they were thinking of suicide bombing, the vehicle should have been set up in advance with a trigger mechanism to ignite the device, like a pressure plate or a vibration switch. Could their taxi have been booby trapped with a device? She observed no suspicious activity. Was there another vehicle on the street that could be hooked up with a secondary explosive device? Certainly, an effective means of blocking the entire area against police and emergency staff. The blue Corsa could be used as a road block or could carry a remote trigger. Two explosions, without knowing the payload of the bombs, could not only be devastating, but catastrophic. The rabbit hole was slipping under her feet. Too many “what if’s”. She stepped back from the edge and bet on the horse.

Once again, she closed the door to any uncertainties. What kind of problem was this? She recognised the set up for a drive by shooting when she saw one.

Something was going to happen next regardless of what she did. So when that something happened, she wanted to be the deciding factor. Again, what to do next?

Shooting the vehicle would only incapacitate their transportation. They would still be dangerous. She could take out the windshield and the driver at the same time. But they would surely have a second shooter, especially for two targets, and he would still be active and armed. Plus, if she had time to take out the second man, that meant the second man had time to take out one of his targets. One out of two was still one too many for her. Which led her to her course of action.

For the two men to survive, they needed to get down. And she wasn’t talking about ducking. Not dodging, not looking for cover. They needed to hit the ground, and hit it fast. With feeling. Her options? If she just pulled a warning shot, chances were likely that they would look around for the source of the gunshot, and there was no way to distinguish her shots as “friendly fire”. Friendly fire could still kill, regardless of the intent. The bullet didn’t care why it was fired. When there were bullets coming in your direction from an unknown gunman, it was all enemy fire.

Because of their training, they would react instinctively to the sound of gunshots. Experience would tell them to take cover, quick draw their own weapons, and return fire in the direction of where the shots came from. For once, she cursed their skills. When the target was not aware that the gunshot they just heard was friendly fire or a warning shot, that just meant that the shooter aimed and missed. Thus the shooter was a poor shot, giving them a chance to shoot back.

She needed to make her threat as immediate as she could. Instinct would tell them the only option for survival was taking cover. A shot above their heads would definitely get their attention, but that still didn’t guarantee that they would move out of the line of fire. Not her line of fire, but from the threat. A single shot had to tell them she could have easily killed them, the bullet did not miss, the shot was intentional, and the message was, GET DOWN NOW. Bonus points if they rolled. That would be even better. Where to take that shot? If she missed her target, well, saying that would be bad, would be the understatement to understate all statements.

Firing her gun was her last option. Regrettably, it was her only option. She was carrying illegally, and with no doubt, would alert both sides to her presence. Even though they would have minimal information, she preferred they didn’t even know that information existed.

Many things would result from putting her gun into play. If she used her gun for a warning shot, then she had to be prepared to be directly involved in a fire fight. And if she was going to be in a firefight, she damn well was going to come out on top. And if she was forced to fight, she would sure as hell fight to win.

She processed all of this in the matter of seconds. Her weapon was drawn before her last thought completed its message.

Her final thought. Fuck.

She wasn’t extravagant with her choice of firearms. She preferred performance and reliability over looks. A Glock 26 sub-compact was her pick for conceal carry. It had less recoil, more on target accuracy, and a fast rate of fire for a gun of its size. Compact enough to be easily concealed, even on her slim frame. A shoulder holster was her carry position of choice. Other positions risked printing. It still had sufficient barrel length to get decent performance out of her ammunition. Ten round magazines were her preference, though it had the capacity for more. She found it cumbersome on the field and only used larger capacity mags when she was target practicing. With the smaller barrel, it had a little more lift than her full size weapon, the Glock 19, but she could compensate easily for the difference between the two. She always kept one in the chamber, ready to be fired. Now she was very glad she did.

The blue coupe rolled toward the men at a deliberate pace as they descended the few steps to the pavement. Tinted windows and the glare of the streets lights blocked her view of the car’s interior. She kept its position in the periphery of her mind. As she drew her weapon, she was comforted by its familiar weight, shape, feel, and the trust that she had with the nuances of its operation. When her weapon was on her, whether holstered or drawn, it became, essentially, an extension of her own body, and thus, was as personal to her as the hands that used it.

No matter where or how she shot her weapon, whether it be for practice, self defence, or to kill, she always returned to the same training, every single time, no matter her target. Repetition, after all, was mastery.

Accuracy was paramount. The biggest lesson she had ever learned? If you didn’t hit what you intended to, you would, of course, hit something else. And you were the one responsible for it. Guns didn’t miss, shooters missed. The bullet would land wherever the muzzle and front sight were pointed when the trigger was engaged. If she didn’t hit her mark, it happened because her front sight and the muzzle were pulled, pushed or jerked out of alignment with the straight line between her eye and her target. And if it deviated, it did so because of the way she manipulated the trigger. Basically, a missed shot was down to user error.

When firing her weapon, she always came back to the relationship between her front sight, rear sight, trigger, her eye and the target.

The more precise the shot, the more precise her sight picture had to be. And this had to be one of the most precise shots she’d ever had to take out in the field. What had she been thinking about understatements?

Well, whatever she thought fell aside and she focused singularly on the task in front of her.

She adopted her modified weaver stance, by instinct. Feet a little wider than shoulder width. Knees soft. Dominant foot slighty behind the other. Her weight was evenly distributed, but she was leaning forward just slightly and angled away from her target. Basically, a boxer’s recovery stance.

She looked at the exact spot on the target that she wanted to hit

She visualized a straight line between her eye and that spot.

She raised her weapon and brought it up to eye level.

She relaxed her grip until it felt natural.

She made sure that front and rear sight intersected the line she drew between her eye and the target.

She levelled the top of the front sight with the top of the rear sight.

She changed her eye focus from the spot on the target to the front of her gun, until her sharp focus centered on the front site.

She could still see her target in line in the distance.

She softened and relaxed the muscles of her face until it felt peaceful.

She shifted her weight just the tiniest bit to the balls of her feet to minimise the lift of the muzzle.

She curled her index finger around the face of the trigger until it nested in the perfect spot.

At the bottom of her exhalation, with just the amount of pressure necessary, no more no less, she smoothly pressed the trigger straight back to the rear.

The sharp report rang in her ears. As the muzzle lifted from the recoil, she kept her focus on the top of the front sight, and maintained alignment with the invisible thread that was pulled tight from her eye, completing her follow throughprecisely at the same time as her bullet hit its mark.

All of this happened, seamlessly, without hesitation, within fractions of a second. In situations such as these time and space had no meaning.

She had just triggered, pun intended, a chain of events that she hoped wouldn’t end in bloodshed. But if it did, she had faith that it wouldn’t be theirs.

The two men fell to the ground, already reaching to draw their own weapons. Without a second thought, she adjusted her aim and stance toward the vehicle that was now passing by the store front. Its window was rolled down and she could see the barrel of a large handgun materialise from the darkness. A shot fired in their direction. She didn’t bother noting the make and model of the gun. Most likely an illegal side arm. Her whole process started from the beginning once more, this time with the anticipation that she may have multiple targets to shoot between.

Her next shot hit the barrel of the weapon before it could pull a second round.

She stole a quick glance at the two men on the ground. Shit. Rather than lining up with the shooters in the car, the older gentleman immediately turned his head in her direction. He was looking for the original shooter. He was good, he nearly zeroed in on her exact location despite gunfire coming from two separate sources. She weighed her options. She could pull back so as not to be seen, but if she did, she would no longer have sight on the car. She could not be certain that they had been incapacitated and without being certain, she couldn’t drop her cover fire position. It would leave the two men vulnerable.

With misgiving, she stayed in place. And, fuck, for a split second their eyes met. She and the car both pulled off one last shot, hers hitting, theirs missing the mark before the vehicle decided that the unknown in the equation was more than they had bargained for. They sped off without her getting a good look at the passengers. They were banking on the element of surprise but she had knocked all of their chips off the table before they could cash out.

Gunfire, uncommon in the streets of London, especially in high traffic, upscale areas like Saville Row, would definitely be suspicious. Reports would be made to the police. She wasn’t sure what the protocol for the two Kingsman were, if they would handle the situation as civilians or remain under the cover of Kingsman, which operated outside the rules of law. She wasn’t waiting around to find out.

She holstered her weapon, adjusted her face and body to a person of no significance or consequence, turned, and took her leave in the opposite direction.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Eggsy try to discover who this new players is, how they were at the right place and the right time, and what they know about Kingsman. A marksman of that caliber isn't someone to take lightly.

_Bloody hell_. Harry's hand was still stinging with heated pain from having his key fob, of all bloody things, shot out of hand. His knee was out of sorts from dropping, face down, to the pavement. Hearing gunshots ring out from, not one, but two different directions did not improve his mood or his state of mind.Continuing to roll as he hit the ground, he switched to his side so he could draw his weapon. But first, he turned toward the direction of the original fire. That was the shooter who caught his interest. A marksman with the precision to shoot a key fob from that distance, within centimetres of his hand without (well without significant) injury was someone not to underestimate. He could make a shot like that. He had plenty of times at the Kingsman shooting range. But that was aiming at a non-moving target in a controlled environment, under the best of circumstances. The only other time he fired a shot that exacting was in Cambodia. While wrestling a certain Agent Whiskey for control of a firearm, he was able to free Eggsy from a lasso looped around his neck by shooting clean through the rope. He assumed landing that shot was 1/4 luck, 1/4 technique and 1/2 his sheer force of will.

Very few marksman possessed the natural talent, training and skill to land that shot. Even less in London proper and he was almost certain that all of those individuals even close to that level, were under Kingsman’s employ.

Under the cover of shadows and partially hidden by a gate column, he spotted the shooter. At the same time, the shooter spotted him and they made split second eye contact. Obviously, the shooter did not want to be witnessed judging from the displeased look that he had noted. But rather than ducking out of view, they kept their stance, provided cover fire until the area was cleared and the threat was gone. And then, without a moments hesitation, the person holstered their weapon and turned abruptly in the opposite direction and began to walk off with long, measured steps. He and Eggsy dusted themselves, gestured to the other, nodded and made off in opposite directions in the attempt to cut the person off at the path. As he smoothed down his suit and adjusted his cuffs, he was quite certain that he was never going to enjoy a peaceful evening again.

——

She didn’t waste valuable seconds checking her phone, grateful that she took the extra time to map her locations in her head. Quickly referring to her orientation, she saw three viable options. Directly in front of her was the Royal Academy. Though it was vast and beautiful and filled with courtyards and eaves, arches, doorways, ideal to drop a tail, it was also closed and quiet. There was no crowd to get lost in. A single person moving in that space would surely be noticed.

She weighed her two other options against each other. Both were about equal in distance. No more than a 10 min walk in either direction. To her right was Mayfair. Situated in the heart of the city, it was one of the most expensive and exclusive areas of London with swanky five-star hotels, shops, restaurants, bars and pubs. Bond Street was sure to be packed with people enjoying the nightlife. Perhaps in another lifetime she could enjoy an evening out in such a place. Not at the moment.

On the plus side, the streets were more random, intersecting at odd places, without the usual grid format. That gave her more exit options. They would less likely follow the same path. Downside, as much as she would enjoy an elegant evening out, she was not appropriately attired. Of course, there would be the usual strong of tourists and visitors that would be similarly inappropriately attired. Even though she would blend in with part of the crowd, she didn’t want to stand out in anyway. Plus, if she needed to tuck into a shop or a restaurant, she wanted to blend with the locals and not the tourists. And she wasn’t going to do that with her nondescript outfit.Or, she would find herself in a situation where someone would ask to take her jacket. She would have to politely refuse because of her shoulder holster and her gun. They would insist. Then it would become an uncomfortable situation for everyone involved. Awkward and uncomfortable would be hard NOT to notice.

A ten minute walk to her left would drop her in ever trendy Soho. A little louder, a little more rowdy and relaxed, Soho was more happy hour than cocktail hour. The way there would have more traffic, both car and pedestrian, but it was also more direct and brightly lit. More importantly, she would be able to blend with the locals, not just the tourists. Maybe even slip into a pub or bar for the glass of wine she so desperately could use. There would be more viable places to manuoever, evade, and find cover. More opportunity to lose a tail. And less likely for a messy confrontation.

Though she didn’t stick around long enough, she was fairly certain that the two men were following her.She kept in mind that they were trained with the same skills and likely had the same natural talent and instincts as she did. Part of her plan was to move slightly against instinct, find the ideal move and then, proceed with something slightly different. But they had to be thinking the same thing.

 _Shit._ The shooters might still be in the area. Depending on whether or not they had backup, if this was an isolated threat on a personal level or if was on an organisational level, she couldn’t be sure that the coast was clear in that direction. When in doubt, take precaution. There were too many unknowns, too many unanswered questions and her preference was to get away without further contact. Since she couldn’t do it clean, she wanted to avoid any additional messiness.

Typical, she thought, making her way through the last of the shoppers and the first of the evening revellers. At the moment she was making progress and feeling more in control of her circumstances, some prick with a gun comes in and has to spray bullets over all the blocks that she spent the last month building. With care and precision, she arranged and rearranged, stacking and re-stacking, until she had created a platform where she could make her move. All her variables were in place. She calculated the possible outcomes and was so close to having a plan. There was some satisfaction, knowing that she had put an equal damper on their scheme, but when success of their plan meant the death of two people, and her plans would only work if those two people were alive, It didn’t leave her much of a choice.

Evasion was as much about mindset as it was movement. She took a mental pause, reset her outlook. Plans only fail if you allowed them to fail.Plans change and hers just did. Focus on clearing out first and then she could regroup and consider her options. If she let her frustrations distract her, she would end up missing details and she had not come this far to make bad decisions. Even in the smallest circumstances, she learned how to turn off emotions, cutting off thoughts and inconvenient emotions. Unfortunately, it was usually the thoughts about the situation she was in, that caused troubling emotions, such as her frustration at the turn of events. But if she walled off those thoughts for the time being, she would be more likely to operate with logic and clarity.

To her advantage, she had a head start, she knew the situation she was dealing with, two known variables on her tail, one unknown threat that could possibly be armed and still in the area. Likely, all three of them knew the area so there was no upper hand in that case. Two would be on foot, probably split to cover more area. It was to her disadvantage that there were two of them, but would be easier to confront them individually if it came to that.

She assumed that they also saw her as a threat. Regardless whether or not her actions had saved their lives, she was still an unknown, an armed and dangerous, one at that. She had to expect hostility, possibly aggression if confronted. It was a situation she would prefer to avoid. 

Her steps were light and relaxed. She paced herself neither too fast, nor too slow. Rushing would call attention. She avoided looking around overtly, but she used her periphery to scan the people and places around her. On the plus side, two handsome men in Saville Row bespoke would definitely turn heads. Especially the tall one, who stood inches over the average person. They couldn’t take off their suit coats either. Not with their own weapons and shoulder holsters.

She took a quick left off the main road. A few blocks over and then she could make another turn toward Soho and break up the straight line she was currently traveling. Maybe stop in Central for a quick diversion. Stay on the move. Be aware of her surroundings. Those were her two priorities. Casually checking her 360 along the way by using any reflections she saw, footsteps, noises she heard, neck stretching every few steps to check blind spots. And for a little while, she did just fine.

That is, until she found herself caught in a standing rear choke hold. _Fuck_.

———

Wherever the hell this person had materialised from, Harry thought, these were not the customs of a novice agent. From weaponry, tactics and evasion, their actions were one hundred percent on point. They should be only a suggestion in the wind by now. The single reason he was able to catch them unaware was because of new Kingsman tech. Just developed, airborne nano GPS trackers. Designed to mark a large group of targets from a distance, they were tiny particles, almost invisible by the naked eye. Programmed to navigate toward the wavelengths of infrared radiation emitted by the human body, specifically at the signature of 12 micron.Best for outdoor use, or in large open spaces, these capsules were broken and released into the air where the prevailing wind would transport the nano GPS transmitters and attach to the nearest known radiation signature. The tracking range could vary depending on the windspeed, air density and how many capsules were released. They were handy to track large crowd movement, not typically used to track a single person. But it was all he had on hand. Since the street was empty at the time, they had a good chance that some GPS attached. Using the process of elimination to rule out unintentional attachments, they could isolated the movement they were looking for. They were looking for someone who moved like a spy.

This person, whoever they were, made all of the decisions that he would have and then added some surprise evasion tactics that he wouldn’t have thought of. They surely would have gotten away if not for the trackers. It wasn’t absolutely necessary that they locate the person. But they were an unknown entity. He wasn’t sure if they were an adversary, an ally, or a neutral player. Neutral players were not known for being experts at tradecraft. That left adversary or ally. With the events of the past two years and the most recent destruction of Kingsman by the Golden Circle, unanswered questions usually returned on their own, carrying an unfavourable answer.Granted, the person saved their lives, but they already knew too much of Kingsman. Knew of threats of which Kingsman was not aware. So when chance invited him to make a move, to quietly sneak behind the person at the last second, he took it.

——

 _This is not why I spent four weeks planning_ , she fumed silently. Her mood was grim. Of course it would be at this exact moment that she registered the slightest contact from behind, like a passing breeze brushing against her. But she knew displaced air when she felt it.Based on her position, facing forward, added to the position he was in, directly behind her, also facing forward, that would have to equal a rear standing choke hold. Instantly, she countered, dropping her chin to her chest like it belonged there, denying him the chance to press his forearm against the front of her neck. A chokehold had two purposes, either to crush the windpipe, resulting in death. Not the outcome she was looking for. Or, to cut off blood to the brain via the carotid artery, leaving her unconscious. Which wasn’t much of a consolation prize. Either way, she had just about 12 seconds to act. Since both options were less than desirable, she shielded her throat as best she could and waited for the window were she could counter like a small, but fierce animal.

The strength of his grip said that he wasn’t going for either option, but told her he using the hold as a restraint. So, she had that going for her, she thought darkly. Yet, he still had the capacity to follow through on either option. There was no give to his grip. Twisting out of the hold was not an option without more leeway. Not one to be held in a vulnerable position, her goal was to escape. Several ways presented themselves, few of which incorporated an unrestrained elbow or kick to the groin. Her aim was not to incapacitate, regardless of how satisfying that may be, but to extricate herself.

Based on sheer size and strength, she was highly disadvantaged. But, as a woman in the field, only relying on your strength, you’d get beaten every time. Women didn’t have to fight harder. They had to fight smarter. Not only did she have to use her size and weight to her advantage, she had to use his size and strength against him. With the obvious discrepancy in height, not that she was short. Five foot nine made her taller than average, but at 6’ 2”, he was also taller than average. Her best option? Leverage. Literally.Use him as lever. It was the move where he would be at a disadvantage and she would have the clear advantage. There was some consolation to be found, knowing they were also expert spies, but not enough to spare herself the embarrassment of being caught. Summoning her nerve, one deep inhalation, she thought, and she would be ready.

_He smells nice._

The thought landed without warning. It didn’t merely land. It hit her. It hit her hard and with feeling. Her concentration stuttered. It was the scent of wood, leather, spices and a hint of something warm, rich and slightly sweet, like a velvety dark chocolate. And then there was a breath of something unexpected. A note she couldn’t identify. It was him, she realised. That was his smell. It was a good smell. A masculine smell. She was suddenly aware of his wool suit against her chin. She noticed the pinstripes against a navy as dark as the sky. The crisp white of his French shirt cuffs and the gold of his cufflinks that held them in place.

Her senses were wide open. They always were on hyperdrive when she was out in the field. That was expected. She relied on them to send her signs that she didn’t have the time to look for. But now, they were receiving all the wrong signals and sending all the wrong messages. Intensely. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shadow of his hand. His large, wide palm was warm on the back of her neck.By pressing her neck forward and down, it was this hand that locked the chokehold in place.

 _What the hell?_ , she thought. She felt the strength of his forearms underneath her palms. Her hands were gripping him so tightly she could feel the cords of muscle through his sleeve. Suddenly, her body became all too aware of his. The sensation of him, the entire length of his body against hers, awakened her own. He wasn’t just standing behind her, he was bearing the whole of his body into hers. Thus, she was counter balancing with equal force. Generating heat and pressure between them.Realising how close, how intimate, how physical, literally, their contact was at that moment, overwhelmed her reason, her logic, her objectivity. And most of all, she was aware of the man behind her. Not as a target, or a mark, or a tail or a problem to be solved. It was him. _It was Harry Hart._

He must have sensed a slight shift in her energy because once that random, startling thought struck home, she didn’t dare move until she knew where it was heading and what she was going to do with it. She probably stopped breathing. Maybe that’s what he noticed because all of a sudden she felt dizzy and lightheaded. Maybe he was holding her a little tighter than she thought. He must have noticed a change because just as suddenly, his grip loosed by a fraction, not enough to escape, but enough to jar her back to the present. He was confusing her and she was angry at being confused.

She was on pause and someone had just hit the reset button. Instantly, she made her next move and she went into action fully committed. There was no hesitation in a move like this. To her advantage, their height difference meant that he had to lean down slightly to get his forearm around her neck, which shifted his center of gravity slightly forward. With his tight grip, she pushed against it, creating the energy of opposing forces to gain momentum. With her neck guarded by her chin, she quickly dropped down to one knee, gripped tightly onto his wrists and forearms, leaned back into him to get the tiniest bit of additional momentum, and then bent forward as sharply as she could from her waist, throwing the full force of her weight into the move and tucking in as tight as possible. Sure enough, with his weight already off center, using her body as a fulcrum, a pivot point, and using his height as a lever, she forced him to tumble over her head.

Normally, after a move such as this, that put her at a tactically advantageous position, she would either evade or go in for an attack move and neutralise the threat. This was not the way she wanted to introduce herself to these two men, but it looked like fate wasn’t giving her any options. She was not prepared for this situation. She didn’t have claim over the next move.It could be either of theirs. Brushing her hair away from her eyes, she cursed herself for not having a hair tie, of all things. She paused for a moment. Her cap got knocked off during her manoeuvre. Wonderful, all these identifiers, now facial features, and the damn hair. She should handover her passport and smartphone and just get it over with. _How did this evening turn so sideways?_

She took a mental pause. Footsteps. His colleague. Who didn’t know what he was walking into. She quite certain it did not look like afternoon tea.

When she heard the brushing noise of a weapon being pulled out of its holster she went back on high alert. They had most definitely past the “direct contact” portion of the evening. As much as she did not want to do them harm, she was more than willing to talk, she equally, did not want to be on the interrogation end of a gun. She had another split second to decide her course of action. Two was much more complicated.

All three of them knew the rules of weaponry in the field and in engagement. Never pull a gun in a circumstance you’re not willing to use it. Never aim at a target you’re not willing to shoot. It wouldn’t have been her first choice, but when she had a lethal weapon aimed in her direction, it left her with few options.

She never had an opportunity to use it before, but it was ideal for this circumstance and what she had planned. She palmed her carbonfiber graphene tactical knife, short, less than 5”in length, from its discreet sleeve at her hip.It’s description stated, “A device for specific close quarters combat manoeuvres in very focused special circumstance scenarios with high impact.” This circumstance would fall under that category, she thought.

The upper hand was all she needed to gain, to have a moment where they would be forced to listen to her. Grace, eloquence… She tossed those out the proverbial window. Her words would have the hardest strike. The most impact. Not her knife, not her gun, not any weapon. Now was not the time for finesse.Once again, she had to turn shitty odds in her favours before the man she just flipped could reorient himself.She wanted to be sorry that it had come to this, but she was just making her counter move. It didn’t matter if it was personal or not. This part, at least for her, was the business aspect of her work. Similar to negotiating a deal, but using weapons and lives as bargaining points.

The knife firmly in her grip, she raised the blade and held its lethal edge against his carotid artery with enough pressure to be VERY uncomfortable, and almost, but not break skin. He was smart and followed the direction guided by pressure of her blade hand and rose with her to a standing position. She stood behind him, angled slightly toward one side. He knew that any counter move on his part, which there were many he could take, and in this case his strength and mass would be at his advantage. She was in a very vulnerable physical position and he could take her down easily. If it weren’t for the knife at the side of his neck. The blade was very small, very light and most of all, it was very, very sharp and designed for close, personal combat.Easy to handle, low pressure point. Which meant, whether or not his move disabled her he would, no doubt, be pulling away with nothing less than a very serious neck wound.

“Stop.” she called out firmly. “Gun down on the ground.”

The man who was under her knife, indicated, " _do what she says_ ".

He placed his gun on the ground and stood with his hands in the air.

She knew he was weighing his options, just as she did her own.

Her voice was clear and just loud enough so he could hear her where he stood.

Seriously, like this was what she needed. Did they really have to go through all this fuss?Spies could be exhausting.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

She kept her voice conversational. Of no consequence or concern and certainly not threatening.

“Do you have enough time to disarm me and get help for your friend, Harry, before he bleeds out?”

She felt the slightest flinch when he heard the sound of his name. Not Arthur or Galahad. His given name.

“You’re quite fast, Eggsy, but not that fast.”

Now Eggsy’s turn as his eyes narrowed both suspicious and surprised. Not Galahad. Not even Gary, but Eggsy.

Ok, making progress, she thought. She had just shown her first card. She knew exactly who they were. Not just their code names. Their real ones.

To drive her point home.“Just the tiniest amount of pressure on his carotid artery, thats all I need. 68 seconds until he loses consciousness. My knife, which you probably can’t see from where you are standing, but he can certainly feel,” she nodded her head toward Harry, “is designed to pierce fast and deep. If I had a regular blade, he might come out clean, but not with this one. Please, sincerely, think twice, for his sake, about making any sudden movements.”

 _Good._ Neither of them made an attempt to move. Not even a twinge. She continued. She didn’t know how long the odds would be in her favour. At this point, she was playing fast and loose. Something she rarely did and she was not used to. One of her biggest strengths was her ability to prepare. This was not a scenario that she had imagined.

“I know either of you could disable me, but not without me doing a fair amount of damage first.”

It wouldn’t be her first choice to do harm, but she was in no mood for additional fuckery and she wanted to make it abundantly clear that, though she was no match for them in terms of brute strength, she had plenty of ways to dominate a fight using strategy. She wasn’t stronger, but she could be smarter. She wasn’t above shedding blood to prove that she was not to be underestimated.

“I didn’t start this fight, but I’m more than happy to finish it.”

She added, “You see how well trained I am. You should be asking yourself why i haven’t killed him, or either of you, already.”

Did they really have to be so obstinate? Obstreperous. Truculent?They should have been asking themselves that question after she took the first shot. They could very easily be dead right now if it were not for her.She needed to prove to them she was not a threat to their lives. Against all of her training, she laid her second card down.

“And ask yourself,” she repeated. “perhaps why, then, I would let him go.”

Very carefully, very slowly, and very deliberately, she softened the pressure against his neck until the blade was no longer making contact. She continued to draw it far away from him, far enough to clear so not to do any damage, before she began to lower it. She took a few steps back, hands up, the knife still visible in her right, but with a carry hold, not an active grip.

Imagine her surprise when Harry turned on her, twisted her wrist until she had to drop the knife. Not without force. She resisted the split second she saw what was happening. She knew in this case, she didn’t have an immediate out, but that didn’t mean she had to make it easy for him. Rather than conserving her energy, she fought him and fought him with force, until she saw his face grimace with the effort.

 _Good,_ she thought.

She made some pretty satisfying contact before he was able to push her all the way back against the red brick warehouse. The wall gave her less room to maneouver. She landed one last, very satisfying kick to his shin. It wasn’t a fancy move. There was no technique involved. She just put all her grit behind that single kick and the connection she made was very gratifying, despite her situation. She hoped it left huge bruise to remember her by. It was obviously painful and hurt him enough that he shoved her away fairly hard. The back of her head knocked into the bricks with a force that she wouldn’t have considered gentlemanly.

Well, she did have a knife to his carotid just a few moments ago, she countered. She supposed turn about was fair play. This time, he was able to get his forearm across her throat and braced his right wrist with the circle of his left hand. Standing arm bar hold. She had no counter this time, seeing since Eggsy had his gun again and it being much harder to escape a bullet than a choke hold. So, that move did not have the impact that she thought it would.

She knew they had to have this conversation, but she was pissed. At them, but she admitted, begrudgingly, that she was mostly pissed at herself for letting her guard down. To be fair, they really had no idea who she was. And until they did, she would remain a threat. But she still had one more card. She was just waiting for the chance to use it.

——

 _What the bloody fuck had just happened?_ Harry Hart was not one to get caught off guard. But he was miffed that it happened this evening. Not only once, but three bloody times, and he had just quite enough of whatever fuckery was happening around him. First, the key fob, then the chokehold, then the bloody knife. Well, my dear, he thought, two can play this game. He wasn’t above fighting dirty. Sometimes the situation insisted on it. It seemed as if this was one of those times.

As soon as she let down her guard sufficiently enough for him to act, he twisted her arm, forcing her to drop the knife. But she wasn’t making things easier for him, or for herself, for that matter. Even though he clearly had the upper hand, she fought him the entire time. She, too, apparently wasn’t above a little dirty dealing when she landed a kick to his shin. A very hard, directed kick, not meant to disable, not in an attempt to escape, a kick just purely meant to cause him pain. A bit more than cheeky. He finally pushed her, maybe just a tad harder than he anticipated, until her head knocked back and hit the warehouse wall behind her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eggsy had taken the opportunity to retrieve his gun and provide cover. Her eyes quickly darted in the same direction, confirmed the same thing that he saw and then stared at him furiously. Whether the fury was directed toward him or to her change in circumstance, most likely both, he could not be certain. 

Making sure his arm bar would prevent any further roughhousing, Harry spoke, adopting almost the same conversational tone as she had. She wasn’t sure if he was matching her tone to respect her or mock her. This time she felt free to show as much aggression as she felt like. There was no consequence at this point. She tossed her damn hair out of her face.

——

As she flipped her hair to the side, Harry, by instinct, began to document her features so, if needed, he could provide a detailed description of her should it ever become necessary. Tall, 5’ 8 1/2 - 9. Slim build, but athletic, lean muscular rather than simply thin. Age was hard to determine, she looked both very young, but her eyes, they were both wise and melancholy. A look that only came with time and experience. Her eyes seemed to say that they had already seen too much. She was anywhere from mid twenties to mid thirties. He noticed that her eyes were grey. Grey, and they had a slight almond shape to them. Tilted just enough to give her an air of mystery. Dark lashes, dark hair and much of it. Long. Wavy. It was shiny and looked very soft. Dusky fair skin with just an undertone of warm olive. Cheeks pink, with displeasure, he thought, or embarrassment, certainly not because she was flattered by the attention. Her mouth was small and delicate, her lips pressed together in a firm line. Also pink. She was quite becoming. Beautiful even. He tried to determine her ethnicity, but found himself unable to place her exotic, yet subtle, delicate features.

Harry caught himself.He wasn’t just documenting her features. It wasn’t bloody like him.These were not the most appropriate thoughts for the moment.

She noticed him noticing her. She didn’t know what he was noticing, so she grew even more frustrated. She obviously didn’t care about keeping her expressions to herself any longer. It was quite loud and clear what she was thinking. It was written all over her face. 

He came back to his words. In his calm, deep voice, he asked her three simple questions.

“Who are you? Who do you work for, and why did you shoot at us?”

A firm set to her jaw and with equal composure, she answered his questions without hesitation, but in her own order.

“I” she emphasised, “didn’t shoot at you.” she added under her breath, “I was aiming for your key fob.”

“I work for no one.” She halted, her eyes pulling their full attention to hers.

She laid down her last card.

“My name is Gwendolyn Mycroft.” she took a meaningful pause. “My father saved your lives.”

Glancing between the two of them, she saw that, as she intended, she had hit home. She added.

‘So, I suggest you release me, and let us go to a place where we can discuss this in a more civilised manner.”

She saw that both of the men were in a state of shock. She could understand. The evening hadn’t gone the way she expected either. She waited for a response that was something other than a blank stare.

“Do you like scotch?” Eggsy asked.

Well, that was a good of a start as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far. Any feedback is ALWAYS appreciated. Gonna go for as long as I can.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwendolyn, having played her last card, shares a drink with Harry and Eggsy while she tells them who she is, where she came from and why she was spying on them. (Apologies for errors, MLA is not my forte.:)
> 
> NOTE: I had it as a flashback at first, then it started getting too complicated. Right now it's a direct narration from Gwen, but is more backstory than anything else and doesn't really fit within the style, but I needed to get it up before I worried over it too much.

The Black Prince Public House stood on a quiet corner in South London’s, Kensington. The pub dated back to the early 20th century and its name referred to the road where it stood. The wall were painted a dark forest green with black trim. Its name was displayed in gold. It was the place to go, its sign stated, for FINE ALES AND STOUT, but the three patrons inside, seated at one of the booths at the rear, decided that something a little stronger was appropriate after the evening’s turn of events.

Gwendolyn decided this was a drink she was waiting for her whole life and, therefore, if she was going to “ _celebrate_ ”, was not the right word, perhaps “ _commemorate the occasion_ ” was a better term, she was going to do it properly. She had acquired a taste for fine scotch and chose accordingly. She was quite sure the two men were slightly taken aback when she ordered three The Macallan 25’s, neat, for the table. She was fairly certain that this warm, friendly, unassuming neighbourhood pub would not carry The Maccallan M Edition, or the Silver Jubilee, or the Dalmore 64.so she didn’t inquire, but even the cost of the three glasses would be relatively extravagant. The price wasn’t a concern of hers and she was sure it wasn’t a concern of the Kingsman, whose coffers went deep. She wasn’t beyond offending any gentlemanly sensibilities this evening. They were beyond chivalry. And she wasn’t about to tolerate either of them possibly ordering for her.

The two men regarded her if she were a new species of female. She probably was. There were female Kingsman agents, but they too, followed Kingsman protocol, regardless of gender. The behaviour, actions, mannerisms of all Kingsman were consistent, familiar, reliable, while she was under no such constraints.If her behaviour this evening was unseemly, “unladylike”, she really couldn’t give a rat’s arse. She was here for a reason and her methods got her job done. Perhaps with less grace and finesse than she was hoping for, but she got her results.

The three short tumblrs of scotch were placed in front of them. It had been a very long time since The Black Prince had poured not one, but three from that particular bottle. As it was custom that the host, or hostess for this matter, make a toast and she didn’t yet make a move toward her glass, the two men waited to follow her lead. So now they decide to be polite, she thought.

“Well, then.” she began. She was slightly irritated at their seemingly perfect presentation, at least on Harry’s part. Eggsy was not beyond taking a more relaxed shape and leaned back into the booth. His tie was loosened and his suit coat unbuttoned. His hair slightly mused even though he did not participate in any of the more physical aspects of their evening, as if that was its natural state. He would have shrugged out of his jacket if it weren’t for his shoulder holster.

Harry Hart, returned back to his gentlemanly demeanour, sat straight, but comfortably, his suit and tie still perfectly in place. Even his hair had somehow returned to its initial state, smooth waves brushed back into shape. It made her feel somewhat uncomfortable to see him so poised after the physical contact they had made. She had flipped him over her head, had a knife to his throat, kicked him fairly hard in the shin, and he looked none the worse for wear. Only his expression, equal parts indignant, concerned, and vaguely offended, revealed that anything of interest had occurred.

In contrast, even turning toward him was likely to throw her off balance. A feeling she did not enjoy one bit. Just her quick glance in his direction and she could feel him behind her again, pressing against her, the long line of his legs, the broadness of his chest across her back, the sheer size of him, the smell of his wool suit and the cologne, soap or whatever made him smell so good and she felt a rush of blood rise up to her cheeks. She clenched her jaw and flushed. She was hoping that they would take it for her high emotional state after their confrontation, not the fact that she found herself neatly attracted to a man she only just met and almost twice her age.

His refined manner only made her that much more aware of her own disheveled state. Her hair, a black cloud that had been blown all over, her pedestrian attire, though not unattractive, in no way matched the elegance of their Kingsman suits. No cosmetics, no adornment, not that those elements of her outward appearance were particularly important to her, in the face of their stately masculinity, she felt decidedly unfeminine. And regardless of her feelings, she knew that her looks were as much of a tool for a spy as her words or actions. She convinced herself she wasn’t concerned just because she wanted Harry to find her attractive.

Her personal feelings seeped into her professional persona. She reeled back her thoughts and replaced them with a cool, calm, collected mindset with a specific objective. If she kept her personal feelings at bay now, she could let it all out after her mission was accomplished. She drilled into her brain, _be smart now, feel later._

Until she felt differently, she approached this as she would any other meeting of an asset or target. What she needed from the relationship and how could she get them to do what she wanted was just as much about finding out what they needed, and how to make it seem she was giving them what they wanted.Almost every relationship was based on a desire to be heard and understood. Wants and needs were always self-revealed, unwittingly or intently. She just had to listen.

Unfortunately, for this first meeting, she would be the one doing most of the talking. She knew being genuine, sincere, and honest, would be in her best interest.The more and better we are heard and understood, she thought, the more we are willing to and want to engage and respond. The sensation of being listened to was a powerful motivator and feeling enhancer to all people, it was human nature.It was why we befriended those that listened to us, worked for those that heard us, and fell in love with those that understood us.

——

“Well” she repeated, refocusing. She shifted her posture, drew her shoulders back, lifted her head a little higher, and held the space around her. Composing herself just as she would with any new asset would put her back on target. _Remember your training._

“I’m sure you have many questions.” She opened up the table.

Harry, as direct as she, got right to the point.

“How are we to trust that you are really Merlin’s daughter? He never spoke of family.”

He folded his hands together, looking stern with a slight narrowing of his eyes, his brow with just a hint of a furrow.

Harry’s eyes roved over her, her posture, hands, the angles of her face. He listened to the inflections of her voice, searching for any tells that might indicate she was being less than honest. He looked for any hint of the tall Scotsman in this young woman. The loss of Merlin was still a wound that was raw. For both he and Eggsy. He wouldn’t tolerate anyone using his death as an excuse, no matter the reason, but especially if it was a false one.

“He wouldn’t have.” She replied bluntly. “

“ How much did you know of Hamish?” She asked.

She emphasised the pronunciation of his given name. _Hay-mish._

“That is, before he came to Kingsman.”

The two men glanced at each other, but did not speak. Admittedly, they did not know of Merlin’s past. He never offered, and as gentleman, they never asked. They both knew that spies usually became spies because of something dark and fucked up from their past, and Harry had no doubt this was the same for Merlin. Hence, he never questioned his unwillingness to disclose his life prior to Kingsman. Harry was the same, just as unwilling to divulge his own personal information.

Eggsy, “That don't mean nothing. Anyone can say that.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, emphasising the importance of his words. They were low and sharp.

“If you really are who you say you are, then you know that his loss is one that we still feel every day.”

He shot a glance toward Eggsy, who more than anyone, felt the weight of his death.

“We will not condone anyone using his name for their own motives. Have you proof?”

She surveyed them for a moment. She considered her words and chose them with care. Her words were all she had and they carried a heavy weight. They had to be strong enough to deliver the message she was about to send. He eyes moved to her drink, still untouched.Mindfulness was key. As was paying attention to their responses, observing them with the intent to understand. Through her words, she would see how they felt, what they were thinking, and most of all, what they wanted or needed.

She cleared her throat. She met one pair of eyes and then the other.She poised herself to say something that, to her, held the utmost honour and importance. She took a deep breath in. At the end of her exhalation, she spoke. Her voice was low as well. Her words were even more powerful for her lack of emotion.

“My father’s favorite song was ‘Country Roads.’ by John Denver.”

The entire room seemed to suddenly quiet with stupefaction.

“My father was singing it, when he stepped off of a land mine to save both of your lives. And to save your mission. For my father, the mission always came first.”

For the two men, this was an impossible statement. No one, set aside Eggsy and himself had that knowledge. Not even other Kingsman.

Harry spoke, this time with frank disbelief. He wasn’t even questioning her. He was asking himself. Out loud. Without his familiar strength and surety.

“That is impossible. There is no possible way you could know that.”

With the same poise, the same simplicity, she explained.

“I was there when he died.” Observing their state of bewilderment, she clarified. “Via satellite and reconnaissance drones.” Which didn’t ease their confusion.

“If you worked with my father, you knew he was a brilliant strategist. He wasn’t merely good, he was gifted. He had the talent of an artist. Some of that talent filtered down to me. I’ll never be as good as he was, but I was good enough to hack the communication band that Statesman had in place for reconnaissance and I had access to audio and visual of the events that led to, and after his death.”

Impossible would never have the same meaning for them again. Because this young woman’s story was utterly impossible. Yet, here it was, an impossible situation. 

She turned slightly toward Eggsy and held his blue eyes with her grey. Her voice took on an undefinable emotion, “I know that he took your place on a land mine, Eggsy.”

And with that confession, he was forced to drop his gaze. Is this how Harry felt when he had to tell him that it was due to Harry’s own mistake that Eggy’s father died? Guilt was physical. It was a crushing weight on his chest that made it hard to breathe.

“I know that he died in the way that he wanted.”

She added with a note of empathy and understanding to slightly ease their guilt and their shock. 

“He was able to give his life for those close to him.” 

Neither of the men could think of anything to say. Harry Hart, who was never at a loss for words, found himself unable to find a single word that would be appropriate for a time and situation like this.

Gwendolyn sighed internally. At least now she had their full attention. She was quite certain that she would not be interrupted this time around.

“Perhaps,”she said. Her voice now carried a softer note. It was not the voice of an agent. It was the voice of a daughter.

“Perhaps, I should start at the beginning”. 

“But first.” she paused and picked up her glass, holding her arm out toward the men, the glass in her hand.

Harry and Eggsy, first exchanging a look in the other’s direction, followed suit. Each man took a glass and waited, with the warm golden liquid breaking up the lines of dim light that hovered over their table.

She suddenly felt overcome once more, as she had been when she first stepped off the train and onto the concourse on her arrival. She channeled that emotion into her toast, which was brief and heartbreaking in its simplicity.

Holding up her glass, “To my father, Hamish Mycroft.” She paused. She held the gaze of both men. “And to Merlin.”

Their glasses touched with a light, crisp ring. Each drank back its contents.

——

As three glasses hit the hardwood of the table. Gwendolyn began to speak. Her story was a long and complicated one. And unfortunately, the two men could tell, it would be a sad one. An unknown daughter of a colleague that you’ve known for most of your adult life doesn’t suddenly appear after his death with good news.

“My father, whose given name was Hamish Mycroft, was married. He had three children. Two boys and a girl. I was the youngest.”

The slightly blank, yet confused faces made it seem like she had already given them more information than they could process. She paused, gestured to the barkeep for another round. The scotch would do good to kick in soon, because her story was not going to get any easier.

“Before he had a family, he worked with far east intelligence, recruited after his time in the army, where he had been stationed in Tibet, Bhutan, and other East Asian territories.”

She nodded her thanks to the barman, who delivered their second round of drinks. The scotch should have been savoured, but she felt at the time, a tip back for her father was right, even though he would have been horrified to see her shoot back a scotch of such high quality. This one however, she would sip.

“While he was working as a field operative at the station in Bhutan, he met a very beautiful Bhutanese woman, Evelyn, my mother, who was also working intelligence, but as a handler. Based on their skill assessment, they were assigned to work as a team. They would run missions together. My father as the operative. My mother, his handler. Hence, I myself am half Scottish, half Bhutanese. If you’ve had difficulty pinpointing my ethnicity. It’s not a common pairing.”

“Even though the agency opposed ‘close and continuing’, inter-agency relationships and relationships in general, Hamish believed that he could live a normal life. That he could have a wife and family despite working in intelligence. They were an example of having a successful home life in addition to a successful career and they were very happy for a long time.”

Merlin as a husband and father were the farthest roles that Harry and Eggsy could imagine him in. The brusk, often testy, disagreeable scotsman, with all the warmth of a potato, with a wife and children.

Gwendolyn continued with her story. Pausing after a long stretch for a sip of her scotch, but for the most part, continuously and without any interruption from the two men. They were both a bit stupefied that one of their closest, most respected and trusted colleagues had an entire past of which they had no knowledge.

—

Hamish was smitten at first glance. On Evelyn’s side, it was more appropriate to say that she tolerated his presence . And even that was putting things kindly. Eventually, he was able to win her over with his rough Scottish brogue, his biting sense of humour and dry wit. Underneath the sarcasm and abrupt, even gruff personality, she sensed a very kind soul who possessed a good heart. It was simply being protected by a shield designed to keep people at arms length.

Though as handler and operative, there could be no shields. There could not be even a hairs breadth distance between a team, let alone an arms length. The operative’s life was literally in the hands of the handler. If they weren’t working, existing, breathing as one, it would be only a matter of time until the operative would find himself in a position where he needed his handler, but the handler wouldn’t be able to provide. Or the agent, not fully trusting his handler, withheld crucial information, therefore setting up his handler to fail in the case where he needs life threatening assistance. These relationships often ended in the death of the operative, as he had to fully entrust not only the capability of his handler, but also fully trust the person behind his earpiece. The relationship had to be based, on not only on professional compatibility, but on a personal and emotional connection as well.Whatever jesting nature, or standoffish front either of them first presented to each other dissolved when they were on mission. The trust was profound. It was scary to know the circumstances they had been through together and how much each of them put their lives in the hands of the other.

Their relationship was highly personal, intense, and emotional. The nature of their relationship was a powerful force behind their choice to be together and to devote their loyalties to a single agency, with a singular mission, to preserve life and to protect the innocent. However, this often resulted in taking out some very bad, very large, very powerful players off the world’s stage. When they both proved themselves more than capable individually, and even beyond exceptional as a team, they were brought on to the Maximum Threat, Maximum Risk Special Operations Division, or MTMR.

The MTMR, only dealt with the worst of the worst, and then the unthinkable of the worst. These were the terrorists, the warlords, those with enough power and influence to bypass almost any law, any treaty and any world decree. Those who would violate human rights and the rules of engagement. They were the worst of the worst, but also the lowest of the low. In their eyes, life was a commodity to be traded, abused or without value and discarded at will. This is what happened when psychopaths achieved power. Without empathy, without a conscious, without a sense of right or wrong or any moral accountability, without any value of life. These were the most dangerous and most difficult enemies to engage. Not only could they commit the most horrible atrocities, they were usually narcissists as well, dynamic, charismatic, even charming. Therefore, their inner circle was comprised of sycophants who provided his narcissistic supply. They eliminated those that were either immune to their charms, or were beginning to understand the true nature of their personality, which was that of a very highly functioning psychopath.

In this division, Hamish did not operate in the field, but joined Evelyn in strategic planning and outcomes. They worked as a team. Hamish, with his knowledge of the field as a Special Operations Officer, possessed the skills to operate weapons and explosives, to take on missions to gather intelligence and destroy targets in hostile environments. He knew the dangers, the variables, the best strategies.

Evelyn provided critical thinking.She had the ability to predict outcomes, to make the most difficult life and death decisions without hesitation and be a leader to her team . The pair became an invaluable asset to the division. It was proof to them, when the agency acknowledged their value, not as separate agents, not as a handler and operative, but as a team, that they could be in the world of espionage as husband and wife with a family. The agency saw that their success was based on not only their expertise, but BECAUSE of, not despite their relationship. The closeness, the sheer absolute trust that they had in each other, and their love kept them committed to each other and their work. They experienced both a fulfilling family life and successful professional life for longer than anyone could hope for in their line of work.

During their successful tenure in the MTMR Special Ops, one operation took precedence over all others. They were both actively involved, not only in gathering intel, but in the entire intelligence cycle.First, with planning, identifying possible threats and what they needed to know about the threat with world leaders and decision makers. Collection, which was the division they both began in, the physical collection of target information through operations. Analysis, examining the new information, looking for connections, key points, new developments, and combining it with what they already knew, creating useful and actionable intelligence. Lastly, was Dissemination, where the new intelligence was discussed with politicians and decision makers who then decided whether to take action or if more information was needed.

It was during one of these cycles, where Evelyn and Hamish were assigned as head officers of a mission. It was a mission that resulted from intel that their team had collected, analysed and produced. The target was an international underground world leader, not of any established or recognised government. He threatened to destabilise society. Not through government or any means of authority. He wasn’t targeting positions of leadership. He wasn’t engaging in the trickle down theory. He was starting at the bottom. First, was taking out crops, tainting water supplies, poisoning livestock. He did not bother with small areas. He targeted the largest ones. Locations with the most impact and the widest effect.Civil unrest was next. Which turned into peaceful demonstrations. Then came active protest. Followed by violent protest. Then it was rioting, looting. And when fear took hold, it was domestic terrorism. He was using the countries own people to destabilise the structure, the foundation of civilisation, which was based on people working together.

Apparently, he was not one to follow the saying, “The fish rots from the head down.” Meaning that without sound leadership, the people will eventually turn bad and die off. When in actuality, the guts, the contents of the fish begins to rot first. Perhaps the warlord followed this philosophy. Corrupt the innovators, the providers, the creators of sustenance, essentially the life givers, and civilised society will begin to rot from, not the head down, but from the inside out.

In conjunction with the US, the British Armed Forces and other key international allies, they were able to coordinate an airstrike. It was successful in so much that they destroyed their enemies home base, their world HQ and well as almost all of their high level leadership. However, they missed their main target. Also on the strike list, was the home of Azal Aamon, which was where he was supposed to be at the time of the strike. His family, wife and two children were to be collateral damage. Unfortunate, but sometimes unavoidable in times of war. But after reviewing the DNA evidence to confirm the targets as deceased, his family was identified, but Aamon’s DNA was not found. No one had knowledge of how he was able to avoid or survive the attack. The last piece of intel that they had verified, was his location at the time of fire.

———

Inside the Black Prince, Gwendolyn paused. She reached for her drink, lifted the glass to her lips, and took a small sip. Harry saw her jaw working as she let the scotch rest on her palate, allowing it to reach all the areas of her tongue so she could appreciate its aromatic notes before she swallowed.It was a gesture he was familiar with, one that he made every time he enjoyed his own drink, but it was especially interesting to see this decidedly, he was not a sexist in any way, shape or form, but this particularly male gesture take shape on her extremely feminine and delicate face. He felt decidedly uncomfortable. So he simply took her lead and followed suit with a swallow of his own. As did Eggsy, who was leaning forward at this point, his elbows on the table and his tie even more undone, as were the few top buttons of his shirt. Harry as always, remained properly attired.

She looked at both of them, her eyes inquiring, silently asking if they had any questions, if they needed any clarifications, to see if they understood. To confirm that they believed her.

Harry was particularly intrigued. Out of all the coincidences that seemed to be happening, he knew precisely, the mission she was referring to. The British Armed Forces did take part in the Aamon mission and he knew this because he was part of the BAF at that time.He had been directly involved in the operations side of the mission. How was it possible that he had this experience in common with Merlin and it never came up in conversation? He thought back to the rare times where they would share stories, sometimes while waiting out a mission, or after a successful one, over a drink just like this. He recalled sharing a few stories from his time in the military, but thinking back, could not recall a single instance that Merlin even mentioned his time in the army, or anything really prior his employment with Kingsman. Harry only knew that he had been military. Out of all the possible connections that they had, one of the biggest ones that they shared remained unknown until after his death.

Gwendoyn was regarding him thoughtfully, knowing that he had made some kind of connection or realisation, but she didn’t mention it and he was grateful. He tipped his head, asking her to please continue.

“As you can imagine, this was seen as a failed mission on paper, since they did not terminate their main target. But in many ways it was a huge success. An operation of this scale, with multiple targets on the board, with international military and intelligence coordination, with minimal collateral damage, is typically unheard of, and my parents were honoured to have lead their intelligence division. I’m not sure if Kingsman participates in this particular tradition, but after high risk missions of this nature, officers and operatives, if it is feasible, are offered time off, mostly to decompress. The agency is aware that if their officers and operatives work at that level of intensity for prolonged periods of time, they will burn out. It’s not possible to sustain that level of stress at length without a chance to wind down.”

It was quiet. Gwendolyn has stopped speaking. Harry could see that she was taking time to collect her thoughts again. He wasn’t sure why she needed to. She was recalling a very complicated and personal story with an eloquence, a clarity and a dignity that he respected very much. She wasn’t just reminiscing about a story, reciting history, or a past event. Their comprehension was important to her. This wasn’t about her “getting something off of her chest”. He had the feeling that she could be very happy never having to say any of these words ever again. She wasn’t looking for support or understanding. She was making sure that THEY understood her story. It wasn’t sympathy for her that she wanted. She was looking for absorbtionParticularly from Harry. Most likely because he had the longest relationship with Merlin. But she was fixing him with a very intense gaze that he was not quite sure what to do with.

Harry already felt a particular sadness. He knew where this story was heading. He might not know the specifics yet, but you didn’t need to be a spy to know there was no happy ending for her. Out of a family that was once a mother, a father, and two brothers, this woman was the only one sitting in front of them. His respect for her was growing with each moment. He was feeling quite sorry now, for treating her so roughly.

She picked up her story, dusted it a little, found where she left off and resumed. Her voice became detached once again, but her words never faltered.

“We were all on break. Because they both got time off, that meant the whole family was on break. It was very rare for us. For the family, for me, those times were very special.I don’t remember many other times we had that kind of chance. Of course, outings were still agency outings. I was really too small at the time, six, but that was our life. I didn’t know any different then. But my parents, because of their positions, were at high risk for retaliation and we always had protection with us. My brothers and I had protocol, even back then. No speaking to strangers, at all. Never speaking about my parents, never offering any personal information. Never giving out my name. If we were ever to get lost, we were never to ask for them or speak their names. We had one number to call and it was not even theirs. It was the agency’s number, created just for us to have in case of an emergency. There was actually a person whose job it was to be prepared if they ever received a call from us. Very few people, and only those with high security clearance, had information about our family. We were referred to as assets. Not by our names.”

As she continued, The more emotion left her voice, the more matter of fact she became, as she became more composed, more stoic, Harry felt his sadness slowly turn into inevitable dread. He was also aware of the second mission that followed up the first air strike. He was also assigned operations support for the BAF’s involvement. He had heard stories about what had happened at intelligence HQ, but never anything confirmed. If she had been involved in that, it was worse than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, THANKS FOR READING! Comments are more than welcome, they are highly appreciated :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwendolyn continues to tell Harry and Eggsy her story about Merlin and her family.
> 
> NOTE: Again, this is backstory that I'm not sure is needed in the final edit. It's still a direct narration from Gwen, but is just a way for me to get her backstory out, account for the missing time, and how she got her skills. I'm afraid that it got too melodramatic....
> 
> I still need to find a better way to work it into the whole format of the story. THanks!

They were on a family picnic, a very rare opportunity for them. It was a simple occasion. A clearing in front of a meadow of tall grasses and flowers. White clouds floating in a blue sky and butterflies. She didn’t know if they actually saw butteries, but her memory of the day had butterflies.She remembered it being a particular treat. She remembered feeling happy. And feeling loved. Looking back, it always had to happen on the most beautiful of days. She couldn’t recall the specifics, but she remembered the tone of the day. She remembered sunshine, laughing, playing simple games like tag, or riding on top of her father’s shoulders. She remembered her parents smiling at each other, hugging, their arms around each other in relaxed in a way she hardly ever got to see them. She remembered picking flowers with her mother and making flower crowns for everyone. And being very pleased when each member of the family indulged her by wearing them, even her brothers. She remembers laughing. The laughter was the last good thing she remembered from that day.

No one knew how they were ambushed. No one knew how their location was leaked. No one knew how their security was compromised. No one knew who killed their personal detail.

Gwendolyn recalled the next part like she was reading a police report and Harry’s heart went out to her.

It was fast. An almost insignificant amount of time. It happened within minutes. Her two brothers were shot on sight, killed instantly. They didn’t even know what was happening. It gave her some solace, after she understood what occurred on that day and why, that they never had the chance to feel fear. That their last experience was laughing with their family. When she was still young, she sometimes wished that she could have been with them. That her last memory could be of laughing, too.

She and her mother were kidnapped. Her father was left behind. She was too young to understand what was happening. She just knew she was scared, and at least she was with her mother. Her mother was calm the entire time. Obviously, her mother had training on what to do in the event of a kidnapping. To stay calm, to stay alive. She tried to be like her mother. She was waiting for her mother to tell her when it was time to escape. As she got older and went through the same training, she realised that her mother, if on her own, would have probably been able to escape, easily. She had the tools, she had the knowledge and most of all, she had the grit. It was just that Gwendolyn was there. And her goal was not to escape, it was to keep her daughter alive.

At a certain point, they were drugged and she lost consciousness. There was a period of time, before the end, that she can’t remember.

The only thing that she knows about this part is what she was told afterward.

Evelyn and Hamish, following the first airstrike, were preparing for a second. Additional intel came in and they were able to track Aamon’s movements. Unfortunately, with a terror organization such as his, Aamon’s influence was felt far and wide and their roots went deep. In this case, it was cut off the head of the snake, but the head can still kill. They strategized a plan, similar to the first, multiple targets, all coordinated to strike at the same time. It was like weeding a lawn. The first round got most of them, the ones that didn’t die, when they began to grow again, go in a second time to clear the rest. The coordinated attack, since it was the effort, again, of several nations and their militaries, every aspect of the final play was set to a countdown, so each party could synchronise their operation with the whole plan. In a coordinated attack like this timing was, perhaps, the most crucial aspect for success.

Her mother and father developed the blueprint of targets and the specifications for the timeline. They were the ones responsible for overseeing the countdown as they were the ones that designed the plan. The program was set to initiate the strikes on a tiered scale, different strikes ordered at different times, depending on the origin of the strike and the final target. Once the program passed the recognition stage, there was no failsafe button. Once it began, it couldn’t be cancelled. The crucial time, where the program could be stopped was during initialisation, which could take up to 30 minutes to an hour or even longer. Depending on the coordination of the programs that were initialising all over the world. It was a very complex system that took expertise to devise and designed to be impossible to stop.

Evelyn and Gwendolyn were being held for ransom. They were taken to the same location as Aamon. He was holding them hostage, as leverage, so Hamish would call off the operation. He was the only other person, other than Evelyn, that had clearance to deactivate the program. A leak, or a mole, a double agent had been filtering information to Aamon and his men. The leak was how they were able to attack their family unawares at their picnic. The leak had made a mistake though, both of them didn’t have to be present at the same time to call off the strike, either of them could still make the order without the other. And it was either of them who could also intiate the attack.

Aamon, when he discovered that they could still trigger the strike, had his men contact Hamish at his headquarters via satellite and demanded a video feed.

—

Evelyn knew every step of the plan from the locations of the targets to the details of the countdown. She understood what has happening. Aamon believed that it took both of them together to initiate the airstrike. Now he knew that Hamish could proceed on his own and he was using her and Gwendolyn as ransom. Stop the strike or they die.

Evelyn went through the entire scenario in her head, filtered through counter scenarios, weighed option after option after option, predicted outcome after outcome. But this time it wasn’t for the mission. She knew the mission would happen. She had no doubt. Everything was already in place. She planned for it and she was ready. She was not concerned with her own life. She was devising a plan to keep her daughter alive. The man who was holding them was a psychopath. She needed to make that work to her advantage.

As a psychopath, he wasn’t even original. First of all, the reciting of all of his plans, all of the ways he was able to outsmart them, the bragging, the grandiose proclamations, the self serving narcissism. It was predictable. But it did work to her advantage. Of course the man had to tell her his plans to get Hamish to stop the countdown. Just as she thought he would. There was more cold hard fury than fear inside of her so she had to tap into the fear she felt for her daughter.

Aamon would threaten Hamish with one of their lives first as a “test” as the first chance to stop the strike. If he refused, the first chance would be killed. He would have one final chance. She knew the details of the countdown by heart. Once Hamish knew where they were being held, Evie knew that he was putting plans into place to try to get them out. As with everything, it was all about timing.

She had to make sure Gwendolyn stayed safe long enough for an exfiltration team to reach her. But they could only be deployed after the system went into failsafe mode. Meaning there was no chance to turn back.

Aamon planned on using Gwendolyn first and then Evelyn, last. She knew what a mother felt when protecting her child, it was fury, but she had to set that aside and pretend that for his own sake, he use her first. Aamon would not have time to go through hostage negotiations twice. He only had time for one and that meant one chance, one person. And if he wanted to get Hamish to stop the strike, it had to be Evelyn. She told him that Hamish cared for his daughter, but not as much as his sons. That compared to the death of his sons, that threatening Gwendolyn was a waste of time and time was something that they did not have if he wanted to stop the strike. It had to be one or the other and if he really wanted Hamish to call off the mission, let her speak to him directly. She would be able to convince him. That it would be smarter for him to use Evelyn. She kept on talking for as long as he would let her, allowing her to slightly feed his ego a little more at a time. Letting the time get away from him. She wanted to be as close to the end of the countdown as possible.

He agreed to her plan like it was his own idea. As they set up the video area, she brushed her daughters hair away from her face. Told her little one to be brave and that she loved her. She kissed the top of her head. Evelyn was going to do everything she could to keep her daughter safe. She hoped it would be enough.

—

It was a handlers worst nightmare. Though not technically a handler, Hamish was in HQ making the decisions, his wife in the field with their daughter. It was a husbands and fathers worst nightmare. He had to set that part of him aside. For all of their sakes.

He had the team in place and on hold to extract his family, he just needed to keep them alive until the program went into failsafe. Once he heard that Aamon was going to put his wife, Evelyn, on the feed, he immediately knew that she had a plan and she was going to transmit a message. He had to be prepared to translate whatever code she used. It turned out he didn’t need to.

Evelyn knew that having his daughter’s life at stake, would be the only way he would give into Aamon’s demands. But, if she has the chance to speak to him first, she knows exactly what she needs to say to convince Hamish, stay with the mission, save Gwendolyn, even if it means that she, herself has to die.It would be the words that he would say to her if their positions were reversed.They are committed to each other in the same way that they are committed to their training. Both of them were always aware that their work came withs risks and a situation like this was always a possibility. What allowed them to live a relatively secure life emotionally, was to be prepared and never let yourself suffer over something that hasn’t happened.

Evelyn would rather die on her own terms than to be used as ransom by a coward who would never experience a moments remorse. If it was only her and she knew she had no chance, she would use the entirety of her skills knowledge and expertise to take out Aamon along with her. But now, as she found herself in this exact scenario, she gave all of her effort, all of her skill, all of her expertise, not to get out alive, not to kill Aamon, but to make sure her daughter had the chance to live.

Evelyn let as much time as they needed to slip by. Aamon set her place in front of the camera. She is demanded that she beg Hamish to cancel the airstrike and save his family. She agrees. The video went live.

When she saw her husband, she spoke his name and she knew that he could hear her. This was her only chance. Their only chance.

“Hamish.”

“Evie.”

She spoke clearly and firmly and with absolute certainty.

“Emotion has no place in this scenario. Remember your training … And remember I love you.” 

Hamish saw Aamon strike Evelyn. She fell out of frame. He knew Evelyn’s message to him was that she understands what he has to do. And that it’s ok. She knows she has die to give a chance for them to save Gwendolyn. She knows the mission has to happen for that’s the only way Hamish can signal the extraction team.

Hamish, with anguish that he doesn’t show in his face, but he feels in the depth of his heart, does not give confirmation and lets the program enter fail safe mode. He heard the gunshot that killed his wife just as he sent out the signal to his men to extract his daughter and get to safety before the strike.

Shots are heard in the feed. They lose video. But he can still hear the rescue team rushing the room. It’s chaos. He hears Gwendolyn crying for her mother. Hamish closes his eyes. He feels his heartbreak for his wife. At the same time, his knees weaken with relief. His daughter is still alive. He cues the rescue team to extractGwendolyn and clear out. It’s affirmative. Aamon realizes that he’s been thwarted again and that Evelyn lied to save her daughter. Fighting is heard as Aamon curses a lifetime of suffering upon Hamish before the audio cuts out.

—-

Gwendolyn stopped to take another swallow of her drink. Her eyes, though they were dry the entire time, were glassy with unshed tears.

She thought, I cried a lifetime of tears when I was six. I don’t have any left.

The two men were still rendered speechless. She witnessed their sorrow. For her yes, but also for the Merlin that they never knew. They felt sorrow for the pain their friend had experienced long before they had met him.

She wished her story was done. But when God handed her this tragedy, he gave with both hands.

“My father was never the same. He was a different man. Losing my mother in the way that he did. After losing my brothers, broke him in a way that he was never able to recover from. 

“They never found proof of death for Aamon. I think that was a huge part of why it was so hard for him. They never found evidence that he was still alive, but that wasn’t good enough for my father. Aamon was a cluster B psychopath. As long as he was MIA, and that if he ever found out I was still alive, he would likely seek revenge and my life would always be at risk.”

“My father knew that the only way he could live was to know that I was safe. He could not face another loss. He retired from the agency, but he could not risk even the possibility that his last child be used against him. They offered protection, but he knew if they had been compromised once, it could happen again. It was never going to be the same. He was willing to live a life without me, as long as he knew I would always be safe. And I would never be safe unless he had Aamon’s proof of death. But they never found him.”

“I was six when I was sent away. Let’s say to the safe house that houses all safe houses. This was why he joined Kingsman. Part of the conditions of his employment was that I be taken to a secure location and provided for the rest of my life. I was to have zero contact. He was to have zero contact. Kingsman wiped my old life and gave me a new one. That was one of my toughest challenges meeting you. I had absolutely no proof that Hamish was my father. All of it had been destroyed and replaced by a completely new identity,

“He was forced to say goodbye to the last person he loved. As was I. With Kingsman’s assistance they faked my death, creating not only documentation, but physical evidence from DNA samples to dental records confirming that I also died in the airstrike.”

“I was sent away to Kingsman Safe Head Quarters. He could never have contact with me again. But if that was the price to ensure my safety then he would pay that price.After my safety and future was ensured through Kingsman, he joined the London HQ in their research and development department. There, my father began his new life as Merlin, alone and unattached and determined to stay that way.”

“Ironically, I’ve been Kingsman almost as long as you have, Harry. In a sense, I was groomed to become Kingsman as well, but I suppose i was a bit too difficult to conform sometimes.”

“This is the Kingsman you only know about if you’re part of it. And you don’t want to be a part of it if you don’t have to. Because to be a part of it means that you’ve suffered terrible personal tragedy and your life is at risk. Their location is never disclosed, it changes periodically, everything is designed to stay, well, secret. If you have the opportunity to leave and decide to leave permanently, you never go back. You couldn’t go back if you wanted to. It’s kind of like the Kingsman version of a witness protection program. Mostly relatives of agents who are at risk, occasionally agents themselves whose lives are threatened. Someone whose death they had to fake, like me.“

“Incidentally KSHQ is also an independent international intelligence agency. Operating simultaneously as your Kingsman, but, let’s say, in a parallel universe with less stringent policies. We take care of many missions that Kingsman cannot not be associated with, for one reason or another. We were like Kingsman Black Ops.”

“We had very similar training, though. We all have the option, to go though the Kingsman recruitment process once we are old enough. If we are accepted we then begin trainIng as an agent. I started the pre-training when I was ten.I started computer and technology, even sooner, so when I was around eight. Because of my father. I found out later that my skills mirrored his. I never reached his level of expertise though.”

“I would have started sooner if I were able. They discovered I had an aptitude for it and I kind of became a project for the trainers, to see how much they could teach and how much I could learn.

To an outsider, it would seem to be an interesting childhood, a rather odd way to grow up. But my childhood to that point couldn’t be described as traditional. Because I was raised around intelligence, from the moment of birth, there were many things that I understood on an instinctual level. Just as one learns how to speak by listening, observing and mimicking their parents, from the time I was born, I was also learning, perhaps subconsciously the lifestyle, the skill sets, the tactics, the mentality, of an intelligence agent.”

“My parents never hid what they did from us. They never spoke in secret. They were very open with us and wanted us to understand that our life had a set of rules that were different than others. They talked to us about death, that there was evil in the world, and that is was their job to protect families like ours, from all the bad things that people could do to each other. By the time I could walk and talk, I had protocol I was supposed to follow. We had escape plans. We were raised with survival skills. I was taught how to take cover.”

“But I wasn’t taught fear, I wasn’t taught to be scared. I was taught that fear was just an emotion, and that if I didn’t want to be scared I didn’t have to be. That if I felt scared or afraid, I could do something that helped me feel in control. I was told I was never helpless. That my feelings didn’t control me, that I could control my feelings. A pretty esoteric concept for a five year old. I’m sure I listened to them, but I never really understood what they meant until I was older. When I found myself automatically doing the things they taught us.”

“I think I was never afraid for my parents because they were never afraid for themselves or each other. The only times I was really afraid was when my brothers were killed, and we were kidnapped. My parents had taught us what to do in case we were kidnapped, what we could do to keep ourselves safe, things we could do to try to escape. They always knew it was a possibility.They never hid the risks, but they never let the risks frighten us. When I was with my mother, all I was waiting for was her to tell me how we were going to escape, because I knew she could. I know now that she could, if she had been alone. I know now that she was trying to keep me safe.”

“And when my mother was killed. I was afraid then. I knew that something bad was going to happen, when my mother told me “be brave, little one.”It was almost like a code. The only times I knew I was supposed to be brave was when something bad was going to happen. If I was told to be brave, it meant that I was supposed to get down, and find a place to hide, that I had to protect myself because they wouldn’t be able to.”

Gwendolyn’s tone had become thoughtful, reflective. “I saw her get shot. I saw my brothers get shot. It was very strange the way I understood death at that time. I wasn’t sad for them. It wasn’t the concept of death and dying that upset me. What upset me was that they were killed. I knew that it wasn’t fair. I knew that it wasn’t a way people should have to die. And then I knew what my parents meant, when they told me that there was bad in the world and that they were fighting to keep bad things from happening to good people. I was able to accept that she had been killed, trying to protect people, to protect me from this bad man. Murder is a hard lesson for a five year old.”

“The other part that was hard. When my father sent me away. My mother dying, no matter how traumatic it was when it happened. I was able to understand it. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but I knew why it did. I had a very black and white concept of good and bad and why people did what they did. My mother was gone. She died because she was a good person fighting against a bad person. Bad people killed my brothers. But five year old me did not understand why I was being sent away, by my father. I didn’t understand all the ramifications of what had happened. Not until after, did I know that my life was at risk, as was my fathers. That Aamon’s death was never confirmed. I didn’t know what a psychopath was. I didn’t know what revenge was. I just knew I was being sent away and that I had done nothing bad. I think that was the hardest.”

Harry was intrigued by her story, sorrowful for his old friend, and for this woman as a young child who was his old friend’s daughter. But also fascinated to hear the details of how her five year old mind had to wrap itself around mortality, and all the ways that life and death influenced how people live. The psychological effects of her experience must have been traumatic, but she seemed comfortable and matter of fact discussing what happened and what she had felt.

“Kingsman saw that I was different from the other children they had there at the time. They knew what I had been through and why I was there. They gave me a lot of psychological tests, making sure I didn’t have PTSD, or if I was holding trauma. They said I was surprisingly rational for a five year old. I was very sad about my mother and my brothers, but I was extremely upset at my father, because I could find no reasonable explanation why he sent me away. And that I could never see or talk to him ever again. Like he was dead. Apparently I kept on insisting that he wasn’t dead, and I wasn’t dead, so why did we have to act like it when, actually being dead, was a very sad thing. I couldn’t understand why someone would purposefully put themselves in this situation. I fought against it for a long time, until it just became another thing that was the way it was. And I could do nothing about it.

“When they found out how much of the ideology was already ingrained in me, they altered my course work “my schooling” to include more intelligence aptitude tests, problem solving skills, spacial relationships, critical thinking. It was designed to keep me interested. You can’t put a stack of books in front of a child and expect them to sit down and study. But they would give me puzzles and games, mazes, a set of tools to take something apart, or give me a toy that I had to figure out what it did and how it worked. They gave me things to take apart, and put together.”

“They showed me a gun. They didn’t know my parents had already taught us about firearms and to respect them.I had never shot a live one myself, but I knew how they worked. My parents took us to the shooting range so we were comfortable with the noise. To see other adults using them responsibly. We knew how to load and unload, we knew how to aim. I was too small at the time, but by the time Kingsman introduced me to firearms, you can imagine their surprise when I took their gun and did just what my parents taught me.”

“First check the weapon to see if it’s live. If there is a bullet in the chamber, disarm it. Release the clip or magazine, check and see if it’s loaded. Load the bullets. Lock the clip back into place. Never put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. We were at the Kingsman shooting range. They didn’t stop me, so apparently, I just kept going, doing what I saw my parents and all the agents my parents worked with. It helped that is was a very small caliber gun, not much more than a BB gun. I took a shooting stance. I knew about aim, the sights on the gun, the recoil. I saw the target, I raised the gun, aligned the sites. Placed my finger on the trigger, focused on the front site and with as much control as my little hand had at the time, pulled the trigger straight back. I was about an inch off the target. They were surprised.”

While sipping the remaining scotch, she told the remainder of her story.

——

After her initial introduction to Kingsman, she began her ballistics and tactical training, hand to hand combat, martial arts. But she was also placed into technical training as well. When they saw she had the same inclinations as her father, she was placed in R and D, computer and strategic planning. Part of all Kingsman training for female agents included finishing school, how to be a proper lady, the art of seduction and espionage.Which included neurolinguistic programming, how to be a skilled conversationalist, how to dress, how to carry one’s self, poise and posture and even dance.

Was it lonely, she thought. She didn’t feel particularly lonely, but she was most certainly alone. She was already familiar with the psychological and mental training for agents. To be removed from situations, to separate yourself from emotions and feelings when in the field. She never made any close friends during her time at Kingsman. She had pleasant acquaintances, mentors and trainers that she respected. But whether it be a conscious choice, she remained emotionally unattached. Mostly, she threw herself into her training. Learning and experiencing as much as she could.

With her technical skills, in her down time, she taught herself how to hack the Kingsman’s mainframe. Once she had access, when she wasn’t training, she was exploring the entire Kingsman world through its technology. Unknowingly to everyone, she became an expert in Kingsmans’ computer system. It also gave her access to all of Kingsman’s history, its agents and missions. And her father. Through exploring their data, she was able to trace the London network, breach their three tier security protocol, and access the system drive. Once in, she had a gateway to everything. Communications, transmissions, data, permission to view all of their files, mission plans, strategy. And best of all, authorisation to their closed caption security systems and the com feeds of every agent and handler. And so she spied on her father and spied on the spies.

What allowed her to survive her teen years at Kingsman was being able to access the London network and follow her father. It was almost as if she was with him. Even better in some ways, because not only was she able to see him and hear him through the comms, she was able to see in to his mind by following his programming strategy. She saw how he thought, how he solved problems, his speed and accuracy. His ingenuity developing new tools and weapons. Which she then, in turn, began to mimic.When she knew he was on a mission, she would follow along, and to her pure delight, on certain occasions, she was able to, unbeknownst to her father, assist him with his plans. It could range from anything like taking down the city’s electric grid when she knew he needed it shut down. Cleaning up his trail if he didn’t have time as he went along on a time sensitive mission. To actually coding along side him in real time. As if there was someone helping him fill in the letters of a crossword puzzle, he would find some of his code already completed. She knew even this contact was dangerous, but she also knew that both she and her father would be able to keep their trails clean. 

It pained her that she can never reveal her identity.But on a few of the occasions, after she’s assisted him with a mission, she watched him sit back with a curious and thoughtful look on his face. Like he was tempted to do something, but knew he must not. It was risky for her to access his network, but it was but beyond dangerous for him to access hers. That would have opened up a traceable connection that could possibly compromise her position. So he can never know for sure, lest he put her in danger, but suspected that it was and it gave him comfort and pride to know she was out there somewhere and that at least they could have this contact.

She had followed their last two missions closely. She witnessed Eggsy’s recruitment and training. Harry’s death and recovery. She had to admit that she followed Harry Hart more frequently than she should have. Mostly she told herself, because he was the person that her father was the closest with and she wanted to know more about the man her father befriended.

When her father had died and the threat of leveraging her life was over, she was free to live as she chose. She could remain at the Kingsman Safe HQ, either just as a resident or to work as an agent. If she chose to, she can travel, or live anywhere she wants to. Part of the contract that Hamish had with Kingsman was that she be taken care of the rest of her life. She has a fund that provides much more than she needs even if she chooses not to work. The only caveat, if she chooses to leave the safe quarters, she can never return. If she wants to contact another Kingsman agency, she has to do so on her own. She will be offered no support other than financial.

After spending some time traveling, she decided that she wants to go to London and take her father’s place.Since she can never return to the SHQ, the only people she really knows are Eggsy and Harry, though they don’t know who she is, and she has never met them in person. She had to find a way to meet them and let her join the team. The problem? She no longer had Kingsman’s resources. And after the events of the Golden Circle, London had intensified their security, had tightened their ranks and were wary of unknown individuals.

Swallowing the last of her drink, she concluded her story.

“With my father gone and Kingsman and its mainframe rebuilt after the bombing, I had no doorway into the new computer system, even if I was able to somehow get network access.”

She was finally showing signs of fatigue.

“The only way I could meet you,” she looked at Harry, “was in person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Have about two more finished chapters I will post after editing. Look for them soon!  
> Comments are always more than appreciated :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Hart reminisces about his own military past with the British Armed Forces. He recalls the tenent that enabled him to survive as a member of the22nd Special Air Service Regiment (SAS), a unit of United Kingdom Special Forces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These later chapters have had less time to plan - kind of literally trying things on to see what fits... :)

In person, Harry Hart was also a man who had to make impossible decisions under unrelenting pressure. He had done it many times, during his time in the British Armed Forces, not just Kingsman. Many thought him to be cold and unfeeling in these instances. But even within these circumstances, he was still Harry Hart. Brave, dependable, strong and honourable. He was an advocate, a protector, an anchor. A rock within the Kingsman agency. Everything a mentor and leader should be. If fellow agents found themselves more and more often at his side, they would catch themselves beginning to wonder about the man who wore the impeccably tailored suit. The man behind the smooth, deep, steady voice. About the man himself. The man whose code name was Galahad.

He was an agent that lived up to his handle.It was a noble name. Courageous. A name for a figure renowned for his gallantry and purity. A name bestowed upon the most perfect of all knights. It befitted him.

Harry was a gentleman through and through. It was impossible for him to be anything else. He was not only a gentleman in traditional terms, an upholder of chivalry, civility, well-mannered and unerringly polite. He was also a gentle man. This would seem incongruous with his work. However, it was part of the reason he was exceedingly good at his job. As soon as the work was done, the target neutralised, the mission complete, he let it all go. Letting any hardness or indifference fall away. Completely. He consistently put his life and the lives of others on the line, many times in very unpleasant circumstances, to say the least. To maintain a sense of balance, to maintain his sanity, not to speak of his humanity, the moment he took off his glasses, he was no longer Agent Galahad, he was Harry Hart.

Deadly assassins were not typically regarded as gentle. But Harry was not by nature a violent man. Neither was he destructive or combative, unlike many of his contemporaries who were drawn to the work because of its brutal nature. Harry was a Kingsman agent because he believed strongly in their purpose to uphold the good and protect the innocent, but also because he was just exceptionally good at the work. The art of spy craft and engagement. Exceedingly good. Disconcertingly good. In the same way one might be a talented piano player, or dancer or an artist. Like Gwendolyn mentioned, it was part a part of him.

He never questioned these skills. He considered them as natural to his character as his height or his brown eyes. He lived them for the majority of his life. He applied them in a manner that would best serve himself and the greater good.

Though he never spoke of it, most of his experience prior to Kingsman, he received during his training and deployment in the British Armed Forces. When he left the military, he was an officer of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment (SAS), a unit of United Kingdom Special Forces, a highly trained and specialised division of the British Army.

If Kingsman was the buffer that had honed and polished Harry Hart into the refined gentleman agent he was today, the SAS was chisel that first carved the man out of the potential stone. The SAS Special Forces had much in common with Kingsman.Special operations were already a part of his lifestyle. Much like the agents of Kingsman, the men of SAS were especially designated, organised, selected, trained and equipped. They utilised unconventional techniques and modes of employment.

The 22nd Special Air Service Regiment was responsible for covert reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, direct action, unconventional warfare and hostage rescue. Much of the information and actions regarding the SAS were highly classified, and were never commented on by the British government nor the Ministry of Defence due to the sensitivity of their operations. For Harry, discretion was not just advised, it was demanded.

He operated behind enemy lines, avoiding direct combat and detection by the enemy. He led commando operations, highly mobile , highly intense surprise raids. His role frequently involved covert direction of air and missile attacks, in areas deep behind enemy lines, placement of remotely monitored sensors and guerrilla operations.

The similarities only went so far. SAS utilised more traditional weapons of combat and warfare, riffles, machine guns, flash bangs, grenades. Whereas Kingsman had the freedom to me more creative, or constraints that made it necessary for additional ingenuity with it’s artillery, often fashioning gentlemanly accessories into lethal weapons. The SAS formal dress khaki uniforms weren’t as stylish and well tailored as Kingsman’s suits, but he did note that as SAS, the cap badge on his sand coloured beret depicted a downward pointing Excalibur, a sword wreathed in flames. Perhaps the sword was a foreshadow of his future as one of the twelve Kingsman’s knights.

If any of his colleagues were to know of his history with the SAS, the would probably respond with confusion. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe Harry Hart to to have the necessary skills. It was that they couldn’t imagine, their stylish, debonair, perfectly appointed quintessential gentleman secret agent in any other role other than Galahad. They were much more familiar with Harry in a Kingsman suit, taking out thugs with his weaponised brolly, rather than the iconic black overalls and the S6 British Army respirator of the SAS, carrying a Heckler and Koch MP5A3, or a C8 Carbine assault rifle, as well as any other item or weapon he might need in battle.

For those agents that were employed long enough with Kingsman, or heard stories passed around the years, it was suspected that Harry was a part of the Counter Revolutionary Blue team for Operation Nimrod during the Iranian Embassy siege. In 1980, from April 30th for a period of 6 days, a band of six heavily armed men overtook the Iranian Embassy in London. 26 people were held hostage. On the last day, after days of unsuccessful negotiations, the gunmen executed a hostage and threw his dead body from the Embassy windows. On that day, the SAS, implemented Operation Nimrod by abseiling from the roof of the embassy and breaking the windows for entry. The raid was over in just over 15 minutes. They were able to rescue all but one hostage and killed all but one of the six hostage takers. No one could confirm whether he had been involved or not. No one had the nerve or balls to ask Harry directly.

The last time Harry was on a mission of similar nature, was the capture of Falcon, a terrorist in the Middle East. He, Merlin and their recruits at the time, James and Lee, fast roped into enemy territory.Fast roping, also known as Fast Rope Insertion Extraction System (FRIES), was a technique for descending a thick rope to access difficult locations by air. It useful for Kingsman to deploy agents into enemy territories where their helicopter could not touch down. Unfortunately, that was the mission where Harry’s mistake cost Eggsy’s father’s life. That was the last time anyone ever saw the sight of Harry in a combat jumpsuit and respirator for a mission.

“Who Dares Wins.” It was the motto of the SAS unit of the British Army Special Forces. During his time in the service, this motto was the catalyst for many dangerous operations. In regards to Kingsman, he also found it appropriate as spies weren’t in the business of truth.

The selection for the Special Forces was as brutal as Kingsman recruitment, just in different ways.They would, however, fight for the title of the most dangerous job interview in the world. SAS selection was reported to be one of the most demanding military training courses in the world with a pass rate of less than 10%. It was a six-month test of strength, endurance, and resolve over the Brecon Beacons and Elan Valley in Wales, and in the jungle of Belize. With SERE Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape training to be the most psychologically challenging aspect. A Kingsman recruit had a one in 12 chance of securing said spot. It was also a test of strength, endurance and resolve mostly over the land and sky of London and the surrounding country side. It also included some fairly challenging psychological tests including one with a train tunnel with a false floor and another with a puppy and a gun. Many candidates failed out at this point. It took about the same amount of time.

In the field, he was indispensable. His experience in the military prepared him for life as a spy. He was exceptional at nearly every aspect of being an agent as he was as a soldier. Harry was able to fit seamlessly into Kingsman’s ranks because he already had specialised skills and experience. He was a highly-trained operative, specialised in sufficiency, stealth, speed, and tactical coordination. If there was a man designed to be a Kingsman agent, Harry Hart would be that man.

——

He did not get any enjoyment from destruction, violence or bloodshed. However, he was not opposed to participating or even instigating moments of sheer mayhem. During the course of his time at Kingsman, he had obliterated many targets and had amassed a shockingly high body count. He didn’t carry any guilt or blame, nor did he celebrate the bloodshed that resulted in their victory over a target. Harry simply accepted violence as part and parcel to the work of a Kingsman agent. To be limited, when possible, though, not altogether unavoidable.

Emotions played an important role in how he operated in life, in the greater world around him. Emotions were a path to a deeper understanding of one’s self and one’s relationships with others. They motivated one’s actions or inactions.Feelings, along with survival instincts were key to one’s decision making processes. But when there was too much or when the emotion was overwhelming, as it could be in extreme cases of conflict or in the chaos of combat, it could make a soldier dysfunction. One of the tenets that had allowed him to not only survive, but to thrive in the military was “be smart now, feel later.”

Part of his success in the SAS was due to his ability to “switch off” his emotions on-demand in moments of chaos or conflict; combat, crises and other high stress activities, basically his entire time in service. He carried this over to his work at Kingsman. His ambivalence allowed him to remain cool, composed and collected in some very unnerving, seemingly impossible situations. In these instances, when other agents might panic, freeze, or be blinded by outrage, fall victim to their own anger and lose control, time would almost freeze for Harry. Allowing him very few precious moments to hyper focus on every minute detail of the circumstance they faced. His senses would sharpen, his mind would calm, his heart rate would slow and remain steady and even. His mind would become a blank slate where every piece of information crucial to their survival was at his fingertips. Irrelevant information fell by the wayside. Emotion was set aside. Sentimentality had no place. Feelings were insignificant.

Agents who accompanied Harry on the field and found themselves is one of these dire situations, would attest to this severe, drastic, unyielding and unfamiliar Agent Galahad. Someone who could evidently act without regard for their safety, well-being, or even survival. At times, even purposely placing them in even more danger or putting another agents lives on the line as if they were inconsequential to him. He would act as if it was nothing to leave behind an injured agent if it could protect the mission. It was as if they were as insignificant to him as an empty clip, a weapon that no longer had any use to him. To be discarded and tossed aside. During these times, Harry would be the cold, dispassionate, ruthless killer that was his reputation.

It was in these hard, stone-faced moments, where he fell into a meditative state or even hypnotised himself in the matter of seconds. Sometimes, only a split second was needed for him to see the solution, the way out, the answer that would get them out of what seemed like a “death and death” situation.

Emotions defined his humanity. But it also could get in the way when he needed to be operative. Thus, on occasion, he had to defer his humanity and be cold and analytical in the field, just as he had been in battle.

In these crucial moments, he needed to see all his available choices and not just what his state of emotions gravitated toward. The more severe an emotional response was expected from any given situation, the more likely it could negatively impact his ability to resolve a difficult task, complication or crisis.

Occasionally, that solution had to disregard his agents humanity, for that sentimentality would surely cloud his judgement, make him hesitate or doubt himself at the most critical moment. They could no longer be considered friends, or even colleagues. It was necessary to strip them of their identity, regard them without pity or remorse. As collateral damage. How hard would it be to achieve this state with family or loved ones, he thought. It was in these times that pure logic had to drive his actions and not be directed by his emotions.

Emotional detachment meant that he could focus and think clearly and act with precision in matters of life and death.

In these moments, there was space in his mind for nothing else except the situation at hand. And without fail, often past the point of all hope lost, no more options, no more cards to play, he would act in a manuever that was incomprehensible to them. Unthinkable. A tactic unfathomable and impossible for anyone else but Harry. Everyone, even the agent he seemingly had no problem disregarding, would come out alive. Often disbelieving, shell-shocked, nerves shot, not unscathed. Confused and outraged. But alive. Agents who experienced this side of Harry Hart, while they continued to admire and respect him, their esteem would now also carry a touch of reverence, incredulity, and awe.

It was not that he was unfeeling. Quite the opposite. It was as if he felt too much. His ability to remove and distance himself from situations was one of the main reasons he was so successful as an agent and continued to be so. Without this survival skill, the inevitable, at times, devastating losses he had faced, and would no doubt face in the future, would break even a better man. Though one would be hard pressed to find a man better than Harry.

What was seen as dispassionate, emotionless indifference was a preservation mechanism, designed to fiercely safeguard and defend a singularly compassionate soul, with a deep reverence for human life, and an immeasurable capacity to love.

But he had never been put in as difficult a position as Merlin.

———

There were not many stories that affected Harry on both a personal and professional level, but in terms of having a difficult past lead you down the path of becoming a spy, he found hers to be the most compelling. He was, not only impressed by her skills as an agent, he was moved by her emotional resilience, fortitude, courage, and most of all, like she said her mother had, her grit.

This was a young woman, whose odds were not just against her, they were set up for her to fail and fail hard. Who was able to overcome the most brutal experiences that anyone can face, let alone a child, and come out, not only adjusted, but stronger for her experience. The last time he had witnessed such strong will and raw, natural talent, was Eggsy.And Eggsy’s father.

He sensed what she was going to ask. What would be the ramifications if she were to join Kingsman? They could certainly use the manpower. Their ranks had been severely depleted since the Golden Circle. Merlin’s expertise and guidance was missed almost as much as they missed the man himself. He understood why Merlin, Hamish, sent her away. A constant reminder of not only the lives he lost, but also the terrible way they were taken from him. A reminder of the life he had sacrificed so much for. The constant fear for her safety. Every time she was out in the field, wondering if he had to prepare for another situation like his wife. For Harry and Eggsy, she would always be a reminder of the friend they lost and the sacrifice he made.

He softened. How would it be, to have everyone send you away because your presence would only be a painful reminder of loss?

Eggsy turned to face him, looking absurdly forlorn as well. Like she was a lost puppy that he wanted to keep.

She smoothed her hair away from her face, brushing the length of it behind her while she squared up her shoulders.

She spoke frankly. “You are the last link that I have to my father. I want to take his place.”

When neither of them replied. She added plainly.

“You clearly have some issued that need to be addressed.” Referring to the car with the shooters and that someone was actively trying to kill them.

“It looks like you could use the help.”

Harry, in his most grave and serious voice, a voice that made even Eggsy straighten up.

“This decision on your part, should not be taken easily or lightly.” He watched her intently. He leaned forward to emphasis his point. “Do you understand all of the ramifications of your choice? You could find yourself in the exact same situation you were in when you were a child. Is that a possibility you can handle?”

Also leaning forward, she matched the seriousness of his tone.

“I have no family, no connections, no ties. I have nothing of value that can be used against me. I’m a trained and experienced agent. I was raised Kingsman and there is nothing of your organization that has been hidden from me. I understand very well.”

Not anything of value now, Harry thought. But considering the future? Yet Harry himself was of the same mentality as Merlin and his wife. Nothing came out of acting now for an eventuality that may never materialise.

There was silence from the two men. She certainly wasn’t going to plead or beg. She had done her part. She told her story. If they couldn’t recognise her value, she would leave right then and there.

She tried to hide her sarcasm, but she wasn’t sure if she succeeded. She leaned back into her booth, crossed her arms over her chest. With a bit of added confrontation.

“I’ve just saved your lives. What else do I have to do to prove myself?” 

Harry contemplated. Eggsy contemplated the same. Even though they didn’t know what the other was thinking, they were both thinking the same. We are agreed. For Merlin.

Harry faced her again and with all of nobility, chivalry and honour that was based on centuries of tradition. “Welcome to Kingsman.”

Gwendolyn, in equal measures of dignity and respect. “Thank you.”

Now that was done, she thought, with a little more drama than she expected, but it had all been manageable.

“So it seems we have a problem. How can I help?”

And with that simple question, Gwendolyn found herself within the ranks of Kingsman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments, suggestions feedback always welcome and appreciated. Even if it's just to say Hi!


	6. THE ART OF SEDUCTION PART 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ALSO LISTED AS SEPARATE WORK: Harry and Gwendolyn, after getting acquainted with each other, share a rare evening alone together in the Kingsman lounge. What starts out as an innocent challenge and a glass of scotch, leads Harry to teach a lesson on the finer points of the gentleman spy's art of seduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of my main series for KINGSMAN, but since this is the chapter with sexy gentleman spy Harry Hart combined with smut that many of us like the most, It's also listed as a separate work so it's easy to find and read on it's own.

After working months at his side, whether it be in the field, during training, debriefing in his office, or simply occupying the same space in quieter moments, reading in the lounge with a cup of tea, enjoying a few precious moments of peace, Gwendolyn was no closer at deciphering the gorgeous mystery that was Harry Hart. Her time with him merely reinforced what she already knew. And what she knew had, much to her chagrin, become increasingly and disconcertingly distracting with every moment she shared space with him. He was beautiful, obviously. She determined that the moment she saw him. Even from a distance, he cut a striking figure. But is was the understated way he acknowledged his own appearance, knew that it was pleasing and accepted it with grace, dignity and a matter-of-factness, that only made him more attractive.

His appeal wasn’t just based on his good looks. There were other men who had more classically balanced features. It was significantly more than good genes or the symmetry of bone structure. Not that his purely physical attributes were lacking in any regard. She had already committed to memory every aspect of his form and figure, from his hair, with a distinguished flurry of silver, all the way down to his feet in their gleaming oxfords. No doubt polished with every wearing; they carried him with purposeful movement and long measured strides.

Harry was a tall man. She would never forget the first choke hold he put her in. Often folding his legs as gracefully as possible under tables and desks that were just a breath too short to accommodate a man of his stature. He carried himself differently. Always with a posture, walk, a gait, that had a purpose. Never rushed unnecessarily, he possessed the ease of someone in full control of his physical body. His movements were light, sharp, and kinetic. When he was still, he held himself straight and tall, without strain. In more casual moments, his weight would shift to one side or the other, or he might lean against a support, breaking up the long, precise lines of his full height.

Mostly, this had to do with a hyper awareness of his environment and his place in it. If he needed to calm a new recruit, he might stand with authority, but tuck his hands in his pockets, conveying a sense of ease and familiarity. When confronting an adversary, his stature seemed to grow as he pulled himself to his full height. In those rare moments where he was free from personal and professional obligations responsibilities, as much as he could ever be, his figure would take on smooth curves and relaxed angles. The space he occupied was his to claim, mould, and manipulate. And he did so with his body, his voice, his gaze, his way of dress.

Surprisingly, she discovered that Harry was a man who often communicated through physical touch. As a man of few words, who often guarded his privacy and personal life, she expected him to be even more reserved with his body language, to be even more wary of close physical contact. Quite the contrary, he was often more generous with a hand on the shoulder or a gentle pat on the back as a form of approval or encouragement. Sometimes, he would place his hand over an agents as gesture of support and understanding. He was more demonstrative with contact and touch than he was with using words of praise or comfort. Even his proximity, whether it be as a figure in the distance or his physical closeness, could affect the energy of the room.

Rolling it over in her mind, she realised that it made sense that Harry would be comfortable communicating through touch. In some regards, he was a very tactile man, a sensual man, if not overtly so. He was a man that celebrated the senses.

In his office, though minimalist by Kingsman standards, austere even, there were touches of extravagance not influenced by tradition. All the furniture, as well as being beautifully made, focused on designs that were hospitable as well as functional. The chairs were comfortable. The lounge was upholstered in a dark, rich leather, well oiled and worn smooth by years of use. It was masculine, but also soft and inviting, a piece that you could relax and sink into. A sumptuous throw. Pillows covered in dark velvet that were actually soft, not just decorative.

The items that did adorn his office were obviously selected thoughtfully and with care. The enticingly smooth curves of a vase, seemingly out of place, brilliant jade against the subdued tones of hunter green, tartans and plaid and the deep tones of polished wood and leather. The delicate lines and breathtaking color of a framed butterfly. A small, sterling silver paperweight in the shape of a terrier. A cut crystal decanter, with matching tumblers, no doubt holding an insanely old and very expensive scotch.

There was an emphasis, not on the prestige or price of an object, but on its, color, texture, lines that were pleasing or challenging to the eye. Not as a flaunting of wealth, but a source of pleasure. It wasn’t an ostentatious display of the rich, It was the luxury of selection and taste. Any piece of clothing or fabric that touched his body directly was often luxurious, as well, scarfs, gloves, fine cashmere or calfskin leather. Though she had no way of knowing, she assumed his sheets would be of the highest thread count.

His manner of dress was immaculate and as precise as the polished, clipped tones of his aristocratic accent. He presented himself as a man who was self-assured with his appearance. Whatever he wore, he wore with confidence. He wore it well, without vanity, pretension, ego or conceit. Not that he needed the help of his wardrobe to face the world. His manner of dress seemed to highlight, magnify his innate sense of self. He was not a flashy man, but he appreciated the expert craftsmanship that went into a finely cut suit. That good clean lines, quality materials, understated but interesting details could be the final polish on an already finely honed presentation. 

His clothing was the other area where he allowed himself some extravagance. A firm believer in the principle that if one’s self and surroundings are not only presentable, but impeccable, then one will always be prepared for what surprises life may decide to throw in one’s direction. In his line of work, unpredictability was as predictable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. His wardrobe countered the erratic nature of life as an agent. Thus, his was a look of man who had his life in order.

He was a man of consistency. His tie was an unfailing full Windsor, tucked under the spread collar of a pristine white shirt. An equally crisp pocket square, folded neatly, peeked from his breast pocket. French cuffs were secured with custom gold links, bearing the Kingsman insignia. His suits were mostly double breasted, in classic shades of black, charcoal, navy and grey and cut in a wool that was appropriate for the occasion, whether solid, pinstriped, or woven with a pattern such as herringbone, or houndstooth. After years as a Kingsman agent, he had amassed a considerable and varied wardrobe that consisted of classic suits, formal wear, overcoats, ties, scarves, for any occasion or any type of mission. Each Kingsman agent also wore a gold signet ring on the pinky of their dominant hand. Harry wore the ring on his right.

Kingsman suits were cut close to the body, but designed with allowances made to accommodate weapons, ensure manoeuvrability and flexibility in all types of action. They were also bulletproof. It was a feature created after decades of experimenting with different textiles and weaves and exploring processes and techniques that would result in a material that could withstand the velocity and impact of of a bullet shot at close range. The lightweight, flexible lining was sewn into every Kingsman suit and many times proved to be a lifesaver.

Shoulder harnesses were used for carrying. Not belt clips. Belts constricted the body whereas a harness allowed freedom of movement. They were also easily and quickly detachable in case they needed to be removed. Belts, on the other hand, though they had their uses, could also cost valuable seconds when needed to be taken off. The carry position prevented printing and maintained the lines of Kingsman’s suits.

The fine, bespoke tailoring emphasized Harry’s height and build. Trousers were slim cut, long and hemmed with a perfect mid break. He preferred the simple Oxford rather than brogues. His shoes would glow with a mellow shine. He styled his hair in a classic, handsome cut, and was always clean shaven, (unless in the field where there was no opportunity for a straight razor shave). His aftershave and cologne were unobtrusive but memorable. Rather than preceding him, the warm and masculine sent of woods and spices, with hints of cardamon, the tactile sensuality of rich leather and suede, would linger after his departure, like a layer of warm dark velvet. Even his hands were beautiful. Beautiful but not delicate. Large wide palms, long elegant fingers, his nails were neat and clipped. They sometimes bore the marks of time spent in the field. They were strong and capable.

Overall, he had the appearance of a man who embraced classics, honoured tradition, but defined his look with his own individual aesthetic personality and sense of style.

In quieter moments, when she had the opportunity to watch him without being too obvious or call attention to herself, she allowed her curiosity to wonder over all the small details and mannerism that were unique to Harry. How his fingertips would gently find the arm of his glasses and rest lightly there, when he was thoughtful or pondering a question, as if it helped him focus or think. The automatic gesture probably developed after years of transmitting information through the eyeglasses, which also functioned as communication devices. Through her experience in human psychology, she recognised this as a self soothing gesture. Finding the comfort of something familiar. She was fairly sure that Harry was aware of this gesture and allowed himself some habits, that were, not particularly productive but, helpful nonetheless. Rubbing his thumb along the band of his signet ring. The way he would always shoot his cuffs when rising from his seat. Or run the palm of his hand along the back of his head, smoothing down the already polished hair.

Never had she met someone who had the ability to asses and evaluate any given situation as throughly and unerringly as Harry. Whether it entailed clearing a room, identifying a mark, or even just something as simple as slowing his pace when she walked along side him so she wouldn’t have to struggle to keep up. He was constantly aware of his surroundings and deconstructing what needed to happen to make the environment more pleasing, the conversation more engaging, the meeting more productive, the mission more likely to succeed. He was nothing if not thoughtful. Thus when she walked with him, he always slowed and allowed her to maintain her own graceful stride.

His physical appearance, his exacting nature, his precise moments, his carefully maintained wardrobe, his formal patterns of speech, his refined accent, not to mention his good looks could intimidate even the most confident agent, let alone a green one. That was until the person in question realised that this outward perfection was merely the layer that he presented to the world.

It would seem impossible for man to be blessed with so many gifts, but Harry Hart proved to be the exception to the rule, for he was as charming and gracious as he was handsome. His quick wit, his clever way with words, as well as his dry, incisive sense of humour could enthral even the most unwilling participant.

He could placate the most difficult handler, assuage the most reluctant agent, enchant the most reserved target, or ingratiate himself into the most inhospitable of circumstances. When he turned on the full force of his charm, the people he met, let alone the men and women who worked with him, frequently found themselves elevated in his presence, their own experience heightened by his vitality and charisma. They left the experience a little breathless, a little awestruck, a little seduced by Harry Hart. She herself was no exception. And she had been spending a lot of time with him.

————

They found themselves alone one evening at the manor. In the lounge, when they both happened to desire a drink at the same time. Most of the Kingsman had already departed for the shop if they were returning to the city. The rest had dispersed to their own private quarters, or were participating in whatever activity they had planned for the evening. The lounge was quiet. They way he liked it. Apparently, it was the way Gwendolyn preferred it as well.

He spotted her the same moment she lifted her gaze at the new arrival. Her eyes narrowed slightly in pleasure at the sight of him. She gave him a small, but welcoming smile. The musical clink of crystal against glass as he poured a scotch from the fully stocked bar was the only sound aside from the cracking logs in the grand fireplace.

The club was a vast space with a vaulted ceiling. The stately fireplace stood on the far wall. Like most of the manor, it was dressed in masculine shades of dark brown and hunter greens, tartan and plaids. Polished hardwood furniture, mostly antique, and historical paintings, displaying the rich history of Kingsman, whispered class and wealth. In the center was an arrangement to accommodate a more substantial group with larger sofas and chaises surrounding a massive polished low wooden table.

Around the room were smaller clusters of tables and leather club chairs tucked into alcoves for smaller gatherings or intimate conversations. 

It was at one these clusters that he found her, tucked in a quiet corner near the fireplace.

In the most relaxed arrangement he allowed himself while still on kingsman property, he had his coat draped over his arm. Dressed in his shirtsleeves, tie and shoulder holster, tumbler in hand, he approached her, also with a pleasant but small smile. Pleased that she be the one that was sharing this space with him.

She was dressed quite differently from how he first remembered her. Well, her clothes hadn’t been memorable, but she had been. Since she was not a knighted agent, they weren’t quite sure how to classify her yet, she took the freedom to dress beyond the Kingsman uniform. Though always appropriate and surprisingly on brand, she was not quite regulation. If she was out in the field, she was in tactical, or the women’s version of the kingsman suits. She even had the shop tailor some custom pieces so she could have more diversity. When she was at Kingsman HQ or at the shop in support, she dressed appropriately, but in her own style. There were handfuls of fashionable men at Kingsman. You couldn’t turn around and not run into a gentleman turned out in Kingsman’s finest. But an attractive, stylish woman was a rarer sight. Even he noticed the heads that turned when she walked by.

Walking toward her, he took the time to observe her appearance, he told himself as spies always did out of habit. Today, she remained on the property. Without the need for being in the field, this would be her most ladylike look. She was dressed in a way that was very elegant, but sexy at the same time. Or, perhaps it wasn’t supposed to look sexy. He set that observation aside. Not the time nor the place, he thought to himself.

She was dressed in a slim, knee length pencil skirt in a very deep shade of oxblood red. It was velvet he noted when he saw the sheen of the grain as she shifted her knees in his direction. A matching tailored jacket, that, like him, she had removed and draped over the back of her chair. Topped with a delicate, almost sheer silk blouse the color of sun bleached bone. It had tiny pearl buttons down the front, and lace detailing at the collar, cuffs and similar detailing along the button placket. A narrow dark brown leather belt circled her waist with a gold clasp rather than a prong buckle. Dark brown suede court shoes with a tall, but reasonable heel. Her makeup was minimal and natural. She looked like she just somehow heightened her features, but in no discernible way he could describe.

As he got closer, he was able to notice even smaller details. Her long, wavy, he had to admit, beautiful hair, was twisted up and away from her face and secured in some secret way women have where it would stay perfectly in place by means he could never quite see. Her accessories were feminine and understated. Small gold earrings in the shape of teardrops, a simple gold cuff around her wrist, a Kingsman issue watch on the other. A signet ring on her own pinkie. Her nails were trimmed short and clean, either no polish or something bare. A thin gold chain around her neck with a small solid gold version of the Kingsman pendant.

He didn’t know what he wanted a woman to look like until he first saw her. The first time, on that first chaotic night, he had the same thought. He could give you a basic description of what she was wearing, but he could describe every feature of her face. The way she looked when she was reflective. The line of her jaw when she was determined.

And then, for the very first time he saw her, dressed, properly, walking down the long marble corridor of the HQ manor, when she had the opportunity to present herself on her own terms. He thought, this is what I want a woman to look like. It wasn’t that she was model beautiful, or that her features were perfect. In London, on the streets, you could see plenty of models. They were beautiful, no doubt, and pleasing to look at, but once you were done, you were able to go about your day without a second thought. 

Her beauty had substance. The fact that he knew what her skill set included, to know what she had overcome to be where she was, to be the person she was, made her beauty a real tangible thing, regardless of what she was wearing. Perhaps it was that, whatever she wore, she made it part of her. It wasn’t just a pretty skirt or a flattering blouse, it was the way she wore it that made you notice her. She could have look completely different, with the opposite features, petite and curly brown hair and brown eyes. He would have still have felt the same. And he would still say, this is what I want a woman to look like.

This young woman had the capacity to stir his heart. Something that had been quiet and still for a very long time. Even something that he thought no longer had the desire to be moved. It was certainly not something he was seeking. He, long ago, had accepted the fact that the life of agent isn’t one that fosters lasting relationships. Relationships were based on communication and he had far too many secrets as a Kingsman.

He was beyond the time in his life for these kinds of thoughts. He knew he had been handsome in his youth. He had his fair share of relationships and much more than his fair share of sexual encounters. He was aware that his looks had carried him quite well as he got older and that if he wanted, there were women, very desirable ones, that would be more than willing to engage in a casual relationship. He was by no means vanilla. It wasn’t that he was prudish in the least, or one to deny himself physical pleasure. If she wasn’t who she was, then he would have most likely allowed himself to pursue her and enjoyed whatever that relationship had to offer. The crux of it was, that he would not be as attracted to her, or charmed by her if she wasn’t exactly who she was. He would not want her as much as he did if she were any different. But it was who she was, ironically, that kept him from her. She was Merlin’s daughter. It was a knot too tight for him to untie.

——

He set these thoughts aside as he approached her. Even though it was obvious she was alone, Kingsman manners never failed. Never ask a lady directly if she’d like your company. Give her a polite way to refuse without making her say no. She will indicate if your presence if desired.

“Excuse me, miss.” he opened. “Is this seat taken?”

She awarded him with an amused smile. She always enjoyed his little game of manners.

She nodded toward the chair. Please.

Draping his coat on the back of his chair, just as she did, He adjusted his slacks so he could sit down comfortably and gracefully. The club chairs were low and designed to sink back into. He took his seat, adjusted a little until he, too, was settled in.

Since both of them were now relatively stuck in their respective positions, where they couldn’t move without significant effort, he simply raised his glass in her direction. She followed suit.

Gwendolyn was pleased when he was comfortable enough to sit in silence with her. It was one of the first tells she would look for in asset or mark. Did they have enough self assurance to be silent? Were they uncomfortable, awkward, fidgety? Did they try to fill the silence with their own words? Most often, if they lacked confidence, she would notice these tells immediately. One of her favourite activities was to sit in silence.

It was also one of her favourite activities to look at Harry Hart. The fact that he was handsome was no surprise. When she initially started at Kingsman, this was simply an objective observation, like masterful way he handled weaponry. Or the fact that he was right handed. The more they were partnered on the field, the closer they became, both in proximity and as colleagues, his physical attributes began to affect her in ways that continued to make her increasingly uncomfortable.

She was aware his body was that of a man that she admired and looked up to. Tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped. Strong, driven, powerful. She became aware of all the things that his body could do. She had the opportunity to observe him every time they were in the field, in combat, in action.

But she also began to discern a softness, a gentleness that he could convey when he gathered her up after a surprising blast had knocked them both off their feet. Hands that smoothed back her hair from her forehead upon waking up in medical after a particularly dangerous mission. A warm hand on her shoulder as she successfully accomplished a challenging task. Arms that held her after a devastating loss.

She was aware that as her mentor, he had a responsibility to maintain a professional relationship. But with escalating frequency, she imagined how it would feel to have him pressed up against her, to feel his body, purposeful and confident. While not in a chokehold.

————

The evening was relaxed. Both of them, without the urgency of an upcoming mission to prepare, took the opportunity to simply rest and unwind. A seldom occasion. Feeling more and more at ease when they were together, she allowed herself a little space to test the waters. When engaging targets, if they seemed comfortable sitting in silence in her company, would they make direct eye contact? She took another small sip of her drink, savoured it for a moment, and swallowed.

Hmmm. She was very curious about Harry and she was feeling surprisingly playful. She wanted to try something. Let’s say an experiment in tradecraft. She waited until she caught his eye. He seemed amused and matched her eye contact with equal directness. She was pleased that he made eye contact and even more pleased when he maintained it. But he was a spy, after all. Making and maintaining eye contact would be elementary for him.

With a little cheekiness on her part, she raised her glass to her lips again and took a small sip. He did not waver. His eyes even took on a little bit of curious amusement. She held the scotch on her tongue, pulled it to the back of her mouth, rolled the scotch around a little bit longer than necessary, before she swallowed.

Neither of them would look away first. She gave him a half smile, half smirk, crinkled her eyes a bit in amusement. She seemed to be saying. Ok. Your turn.

He had never seen her in this kind of playful mood and Harry suddenly found himself enjoying this little match immensely.

He could more than participate in this game. He, literally, had decades more experience than her. An agent may be able to seduce. But a gentleman agent was a master at the art of seduction. And Harry Hart was the consummate gentleman agent. One did not get to where he was in life without knowing how to pleasure a woman. He was often told he had beautiful and talented hands. That may have been years ago, but those kinds of skills, they stayed with a man.

A quick raise of his brow. Darling, challenge accepted.

Holding her eyes with his, he lowered his glass just enough to where it was in her sight line, but slightly off to the side, at the edge of her peripheral vision. She would still be able to hold eye contact, but would have to make an effort not to glance down at his glass. Especially, when she saw what he was going to do with it.

He held her gaze suddenly with an intense focus she was unprepared for. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that he was holding his glass, cupping it in the palm of one hand. He began to simply roll it around gently, as one would while enjoying a proper scotch. He rolled it around harmlessly, in a slow, lazy, rhythmic pattern.

She had to concentrate a little harder not to look away, but she kept his gaze. If she was uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. She hoped her gaze held a similar intensity as Harry’s. His felt, well, piercing, for lack of a more appropriate word.

This was certainly turning out to be an interesting evening, Harry thought. She seemed determined to stick this through. He would be required to dial his technique up a notch. He nested the heavy base in the center of his palm and let it rest there for awhile without moving. Then, once again, he started rolling the glass in his hand, not to stir the liquid, but to feel the surface of glass itself. He bounced the glass, lightly, as if testing the weight and feeling the heaviness.

The movement was subtle, slow, and sensuous. He let his hand explore the texture of the smooth surface. The base of his thumb pressed against the glass in slow, languid circles, sometimes rolling on to the pad of his thumb, sometimes to his finger tip. But he did this as if he were doing it unconsciously, because he was staring at the young woman who sat in front of him with the focus and intensity that said she was the only woman on earth, and that he wanted her.

There was truth to the term, the male gaze. It was not looking at something through a man’s eyes, it was seeing into something as a man. There was a reason why they called this particular look penetrating. It was a gaze of desire, a singularly male want and need. If done properly, it was a way to make love to a woman without touching her. It was far beyond physical contact . It wasn’t hard for him to harness his essential masculine energy. He had done it for years on countless honey traps in his younger days with the agency. He hadn’t thrown the full force of himself to seduce in quite awhile and found that he was enjoying a little flex of his muscle. If desire had a name, at that moment, it would be called Harry Hart. He let his desire roll off of him in waves.

What she didn’t quite understand, was that the game she was playing with him, wasn’t about who could keep eye contact the longest. It was a question of who was going to be seduced and who was going to be the seducer. She was approaching what she thought was a staring contest as a battle of the wills, which was why she was going to fail. Making eye contact may be a test of power and confidence, but that was a quick, brief test. A simple meeting or a darting of the eyes. It was very easy to find out who was going to be able to make and hold contact. However, eye contact for a prolonged period of time, especially between a man and a woman? It became something quite different. It was a game of seduction. It wasn’t a test of power. It was a test of control. Control of two things in this case, the seducer’s own desire, and the desire of the other person. Could the seducer harness his own desire to control the seduced.

She had not faltered yet. He raised to single brow. Would you like me to keep going?

She narrowed her gaze. Please, do.

The expression on his face all but said out loud. “You asked for it.”

He saw the flush in her cheeks when she noticed what he was doing with his glass. Her breathing intensified. Her pupils dilated and there was nothing she could do to stop it. 

They were very small movements, but very deliberate movements. He cupped the bottom of the glass in one palm, fingers spread as if he were holding up a small tray. Using only his middle finger, the rest of his hand now cupping the base, he began to stroke the center of the glass. Like he was using his finger to say, come here. In very slow, very deliberate, beyond suggestive movements. His other hand simply rested on the top rim of the glass. Gently holding it in place while he moved his bottom hand. He did this without twitching another muscle in his body, as if nothing had changed.

Her eyes widened. Holy fuck, she thought. With very exact and explicit movements of his hands, he was not just implying, but overtly demonstrating how he used them to give pleasure to a woman. The shock of seeing him within the frame of something so blatantly sexual, all the while looking at her the entire time? It was intensely arousing.

He was not only looking at her, he was positively devouring her with his gaze. She could feel him, his energy in pulses of heat. This wasn’t merely eye contact. This was something unexpected and she was not prepared for it. Harry was suddenly changed, maybe not changed, but different. He was harder, stronger, more demanding. He was more of everything. The polite, honorable, considerate gentleman was still there, but now he added an aspect of himself that she had never seen or experienced before. The man was still Harry, but it also as if a part of him had been unleashed, whatever primal energy that was held in check by the handsome suits and the manners and the chivalry, had been released.

She fought to maintain her composure. He knew exactly what he was doing. His hands moved expertly, and with ease. His gaze, became even more intense, if that was even possible.

He continued to play and to tease as he held the glass in his palm. She knew where he had his hand. She could feel the exact placement as if it were on her own body. The base of his palm would cup her center, with the rest of his fingers spreading between her legs. His middle finger was still moving in achingly slow circles, one direction, then slowly moving in the other direction. He curled his finger under, using his knuckle, rolling it in tiny circles. Not even really moving just shifting the pressure moving from one side to the other, from top to bottom.

She saw in his eyes, that he knew, that she was not only being affected by his movements, but she was feeling sensations as if he were touching her directly.

It was the most erotic experience of her life.

Here was this beautiful man, still dressed as properly as ever in his dress shirt and tie, his shoulder holster with his side arm. His perfect hair, his perfect face. With all his dignity and respect, relaxing comfortably back into his chair, his legs spread wide, an ankle crossed over his knee, one elbow resting casually on the arm of his leather chair. Radiating such a profound sexual energy, that without even touching her, had the ability to control her body with only his eyes and the the way he moved a glass in his hand. He was so confident in his movements. His expression said, however brief this moment, that he owned her, that she was his, and he knows that she wants it that way. He can see it all over her face. He can see it in her eyes.

——

He wasn’t even close to being done.

He took his other hand, laying his palm over the glass, as if it was resting there. On the other side of the glass, where his thumb fell, he began to roll it around in very explicit, very familiar circles.

He felt himself harden as his own arousal grew. He didn’t try to stop it. Instead of letting it distract him, he channeled that energy through him and into her. Allowing her to witness the physical evidence of his own desire would strengthen his hold. Never underestimate the power of the imagination. She would see it. Her mind would do the rest.

He saw her lips part, even the slightest bit. Her chest rising and falling under her ladylike blouse as her breathe quickened. Her knees pressed tightly together. He watched her face very, very carefully and intently, watching the subtle changes in her expressions as he shifted the movements of his hands, knowing that she was feeling his movements in her body. Every time her brow would furrow, or she took a sharp intake of breath, or would clench her pretty hands, as he moved his own, he knew she was feeling pleasure. And that he was the source of that pleasure.

He knew that there were men who were turned on by violence. For him, however, there was nothing more erotic than the sight of a woman experiencing the pleasure that you were giving her. So, he was especially aroused when he was free to look at the nuances of her face and body freely and openly. Her pleasure had reached a constant as she moved almost imperceptibly to the consistent rhythm of his hand.

And she still did not drop her eye contact. He knew, now that she was fully aroused, she would not break eye contact. She probably couldn’t at this point if she tried. For, half of her pleasure was a result of seeing the man who was controlling her pleasure. And seeing that she pleased him, that he was also sexually aroused, intensified her pleasure. And she wanted to offer that to him, very willingly. He was finding out much about her in these few moments. Things that he wasn’t even sure she knew about herself. Very few women would have been comfortable enough with their sexuality to be purely on the receiving end of pleasure. In the intimacy of their own bedroom in a committed relationship. Let alone in an extremely public and therefore vulnerable way. With a man who may be, slightly off limits. Which, in fact, probably added to her pleasure.

To see just how much she was under his thumb, pun aside, he paused for a moment. He kept his hand, his fingers in the exact same place. He just stilled. And watched her. After a few moments he could see the tiniest furrow of her brow. When he continued to remain still, he saw the movement he waiting for. She probably didn’t even know she had made it. It was the slightest lifting and rolling of her hips. He didn’t realize he could be more turned on, but he felt himself harden even more. It was the motion every woman made, in his experience, when they wanted more, when they were asking for more, and when they were begging for more. The ability to actively listen and comprehend another person was the most profound influencing tactic one could hone in communication, and therefore seduction. Which is exactly what he was doing. In a very non verbal, very physical way.

He began his movements again, with more intensity and purpose. He let his finger, for the first time, slide all the way up the side of the glass, even letting it lift with the upward movement of his palm. He saw her body move as if she were receiving him.

He knew she was experiencing waves of intense pleasure. He could tell she wanted to close her eyes and tip her head back. As he witnessed her need, he went in for his last movements. His palm pressing up into the base of the glass, his thumb rolling in small firm circles and his entire middle finger along the entire length of the glass, the tip almost reaching the top of the rim. As if his finger were deep inside her, he made deliberate strokes while pressing into the glass, slow, but then gradually increasing in speed and pressure.

He knew, that she knew, the exact two parts he was pleasuring.

Her lips parted, her breathing grew heavier. She had no idea what was going to happen next, all she felt were waves of pleasure. The only thing she could concentrate on was not losing eye contact with the man in front of her.

Harry knew at this point, he had let what was a silly, flirtatious game, go too far. He also knew this began as a challenge, and Harry Hart was never one to back down from a challenge. He also knew that he never purposely lost a game. If it took climaxing for her to break eye contact, then so be it.

He also knew he was mesmerized by the sight of her. He didn’t know if he could stop. But it didn’t matter because he didn’t want to. This moment had to hit the list of the top most erotic experiences of his life. Both fully clothed, siting in separate chairs, more than six feet apart. With only eye contact between them. He didn’t know if he’d experienced something more intensely arousing, knowing that he was the one she was feeling when she made herself come.

He began to see the tell tale tremors, the quickening breath, her lips parting with cries that she desperately wanted to make that she would not let herself, and the dear girl, was still trying to hold on. Psychologically she was making it harder for herself, denying her own release would only make it that much more physically intense when she had to give in.

It was at that moment, that a door banged within the manor and someone appeared at the large entrance of the club room.

“Harry. That you?”

Damn it. It was Eggsy.

“Just headin’ out.” Eggsy called over. “What’s up? Looks like you two’re having a staring contest. Whose winning?”

“It’s a tie” Harry replied.

Eggsy held up his hand in a quick wave and left.

He glanced back over to Gwendolyn, where she was still trying to maintain eye contact, wait no, she was just staring into the space behind him, concentrating on something he could not see.

——

She knew she had to stop staring at Harry, so she looked past his shoulder into the empty space behind him. At this point, even the sight of him might set her off. She was still right at the cusp of her climax and her body was still so aroused she was afraid that any movement could push her over the edge. She wanted to tell Harry to leave, but she couldn’t think of a way without embarrassing or offending one or both of them. All she could do at the moment was sit quietly. So that’s what she did. She was waiting for her body to catch up with the rest of her and settle down. He was waiting patiently until she was ready to move or speak.

After a bit of time, she glanced over at him, made sure it was safe. It was, and she began to relax a little, though her body still felt like a flame that was ready to ignite with any hint of friction. She just needed to stay still for awhile.

She saw Harry watching her, his face both concerned and amused.

He broke the silence.

“And that, my darling,” he said pointedly. “Is how one create’s an effective honey trap.”

In an attempt to further diffuse the situation, he wanted to be frank and direct with her and not to brush what just happened under the rug. That would be awkward for both of them. He did not want her to feel embarrassed or ashamed or uncomfortable with him or what had happened. The best way was to be as blunt as possible. He pushed down on his palms and rose out of his chair with minimal effort.

“My dear, I’ve been in the spy business for over 30 years. One does not get this far without knowing how to pleasure a woman.”

He winked at her.

“Not to worry, you’ll get there.”

He reached behind him for his coat, draped it over his arm, but not before she clearly noticed his own erection. Which before had just been a suggestion in the shadows. He’s hard.

The thought made her flame all over again.

“I need to take my leave. Will you be alright, here?”

All she could do is nod. She didn’t trust her voice yet.

Always the gentleman. He leaned over and brushed his lips against the top of her hair.

“Thank you for the lovely evening.”

She still couldn’t look directly at him so she turned her head slightly to the side and gave him a small nod. With a quick squeeze of her arm, she heard his departing footsteps. He was heading to the tunnels. He was going back into the city, He wouldn’t be staying at he manor. She didn’t know if she was glad or disappointed.

She was grateful to him for providing at least a somewhat graceful way to exit the situation, referring to the seduction technique that ALL agents are trained in. He was letting her chalk it up to a learning experience.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She tried again.

“Fuck.”

It was the first word that she had said all evening.

——

“Fuck.”

Harry thought as he boarded the train back into the city. He had actually planned on staying at the manor, but with what just happened with Gwendolyn, he wasn’t sure if that would be the best course of action. It took all of his self control to remove himself from any temptation by leaving the place entirely. Making it impossible for him to act in a way that was inappropriate. Not that what had just happened would qualify as appropriate. At least it had the veil of a lesson on seduction. He wasn’t sure it would convince judges, but he found it a weak, but passable excuse.

Now, the problem for the moment was that all he could see was her face as he pleasured her. How her lips parted, and her breasts underneath her blouse, the flush of her cheeks. He wanted to hear what her cries would’ve sounded like. He wanted to be the one to make her cry out. His sex drive, always healthy, may have had a prolonged dormant period in recent times. But now it was raging like a fire that he unleashed and now he couldn’t put out. By letting the full force of it out this evening, it was fully awake and needed something to do. He had feared that if he had stayed at the manor even a moment longer, he wouldn’t have been able to help himself and would’ve taken her and had her right there.

If he could do that to her with his eyes and just the suggestion of his hands, he couldn’t imaging what it would be like pleasuring her with his entire body. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until her took care of himself, and when he did, he would allow himself the sight of her trembling, responsive, body underneath his own as he gave her the pleasure he knew she so desperately wanted, him deep inside as he felt her body shudder around him when she climaxed, feeling his own release as he heard her cry out his name in pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments always appreciated :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face shows up at Kingsman. They discuss the possibility of a new adversary threatening the future of Kingsman,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be less developed as other chapters. I suck at plot.

A tall, decidedly handsome man pushed open the double doors of Kingsman Tailor Shop and strode in as if he owned the place. It was a possibility not to discount as he was dressed almost identically as the Kingsman agents. However, there was something quite different about this gentleman. His distinction had more to do with his bearing, the way he walked, the way he swaggered and less to do with his black leather cowboy boots and his silver flask belt buckle. Though these deviations from Kingsman’s regulation attire were noted. He seemed to take up more space, even though the shop was empty at the time. He was taller than Eggsy, but not quite reaching the heights of Harry, even with his heeled boots. And while Harry carried himself with a subtle, lean and long masculine grace, this man was robust and brawny. His build was closer to Eggsy’s, broad in the shoulders, strong and sturdy. Just taller. Bigger.

The man paused at the reception desk. Drove the pointed, business end of a Kingsman umbrella, the ferrule, onto the hardwood floor. He clutched the grip with both hands and announced his presence, while planting himself with his cowboy boots a little wider than hips width distance apart.

“Tell ‘em in the back that Agent Tequila’s here.” He hollered.

Aside from the smaller details, his voice was the identifying factor. The man announced his presence with a deep, masculine southern drawl. The accent had the formality of Received Pronunciation, but with a twist from across the pond.

He was Agent Tequila, from the United States. He arrived at Kingsman London to assist after the events of The Golden Circle depleted the Kingsman’s ranks. And because Champagne “Champ”, the head of Statesman, their U.S. counterpart, believed some time spent with the good ‘ole boys of Kingsman would add a little class and sophistication to the rough around the edges, but otherwise adept agent. 

Tequila, on the other hand, regarded this stint as an opportunity, if not to corrupt the ranks of Kingsman, at the very least, shake ‘em up a bit. Loosen ‘em up. It didn’t have to be suits and ties ALL the time. 

His own reflection caught his eye in one of the dressing mirrors and he gave himself a wink. He did have to admit that he carried the suit well and he did look mighty damn fine. 

Not a bad toss up for being a little less comfortable in his Levis and his snap button shirts. He did find himself missing his cowboy hat. The rounded felt hat from the London hat-makers Thomas and William Bowler, felt stuffy and small compared to his Stetson. Granted, it did have an older history in 1849, compared to 1865, but not by much. He was assured that the bowler, in conjunction with the rolled brolly, what they called an umbrella, was the look of a proper city gentleman. He still figured southerners could hold their own when you got right down to it. In the meantime, as long as they didn’t put a bur in his saddle, everything should be fine as paint. No sale on the cowboy boots and the belt buckle. Getting citified only went so far. But otherwise, he reckoned, when in Rome.

The door to one of the dressing rooms swung open and Eggsy stepped out. An odd place to be waiting, seeing that he wasn’t with a client. How the hells long as he been in there, he thought.

Tequila lifted a chin in his direction. 

“Well, you got here faster than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking competition -”

He cut himself off when a second person followed him out of the room. Not a client, curiously, but a young woman he had never seen before. Her attire was similar to Kingsman agents, but not exactly. She was dressed in a slim skirt and suit set, navy with Prince of Wales checked pattern. Just as their suits were cut to fit a man’s shape, hers was cut to enhance the lines of a more feminine figure. Just as precise, just as exacting. Rather than a men’s dress shirt, she wore a feminine silk blouse with ruffled detailing. Rather than a tie, she had a silk scarf of the same pattern tied around the low bun holding her hair. Her black patent Mary Janes gave another several inches to her already tall height. She made really quite the fetching picture. 

Well, there go my manners, Tequila thought.

Eggsy decided it was in all of their best interests if he took care of the introductions, just in case the brash southerner was about to come up with something that sounded slightly insulting. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his particular curious vernacular just yet. And Eggsy didn’t trust him enough not to say something offensive.

“Agent Tequila, I would like you to meet Gwendolyn Mycroft.” he gestured to the woman who stood next to him, “She is one of Kingsman’s newest additions.”

“Gwendolyn, this is Agent Tequila, he is part of Statesman, our equivalent agency based in the United States. I believe you are familiar with it.”

Eggsy stopped himself. He didn’t quite think it was an appropriate time or in good taste to mention she knew Statesman because she hacked into their computer’s mainframe and then watched her father die.

Gwendolyn held out her hand politely, with an inscrutable expression. It was the way she greeted all unknowns until she was able to form her opinion.

“Pleasure to meet you, Agent Tequila.” she responded properly.

Eggsy wanted to cringe when he saw Tequila take her hand and promptly kiss the back of it.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Mycroft.” He drawled. Gwendolyn began to pull her hand back a fraction before he let it go. If she was amused or offended by his gesture, she didn’t let it show.

At least it wasn’t a double air cheek kiss, Eggsy thought. He continued. “Agent Tequila is also here to help us establish the foundation of the new Kingsman.”

Tequila, in Gwendolyn’s direction. “I guess you’re here to do the same.”

Her expression still hadn’t shifted. But her eyes had yet to leave Agent Tequila’s face.

Eggsy spoke for her. “Yes, she is also helping in Field work, Strategy as well as Research and Development.”

“Well don’t you sound as smart as all get out.” Tequila said as a compliment. “Why don’t you join us while Eggsy gives me a tour of this joint?”

Eggsy noticed that Gwendolyn’s expression had not changed a single bit since she first saw the agent from the south. And with Tequila pouring on more charm than usual, he was sure it was going to make for an interesting time at Kingsman. As he invited the agent to take a tour of the shop, he was suddenly very glad that he was married.

——

With the financial support of their new Kingsman distillery and additional backing from Statesman, they were able to begin the rebuild of the shop, ancillary locations and warehouses, though it would still be years until they were able to match the previous Kingsman’s massive collection of artillery, technology, and properties. Kingsman had been steeped in history. Many objects of historical significance they had lost were irreplaceable. But its complete destruction allowed them the opportunity to separate the wheat from the chafe, the good from the bad, to let go of archaic traditions that no longer held significance or value, and prioritise where their main focus should lie. 

Reconstructing the Kingsman’s front was one of those top priorities. The tailor shop was running smoothly again, fashioning first rate bespoke menswear as it had prior to the explosions. Kingsman agents were supplied with new suits with fresh bulletproof lining. A new collection of accoutrements accompanied each agent. They prioritized the shop, as well as rebuilding their armoury and weapons cache. 

As long as the agents had their Kingsman armour and the accessories that completed the look, they were mission ready. The rest would be replaced in time. Historical buildings and 100 year old scotch couldn’t protect the world from all the horrible things men did to each other. It was the knights, the brave and honourable men and women that made up the ranks of Kingsman, that would carry on the ultimate mission of their organization, to uphold peace and protect life.

The Kingsman suit didn’t make the man, but the agents definitely embodied the suits as well as every gentleman spy should. And being a gentleman spy was a matter of being four things. They were polite. They were courteous. They were well mannered. And they had a plan to kill everyone in a room at any given time.

———-

Gwendolyn’s appearance came, by chance, at the most fortuitous moment. While a drive-by shooting was not the most elegant tactic to remove players from the board, if done properly, it was effective. Fast and fatal with little fuss. With less chance for blowback, but common enough where the news of a drive by shooting was not likely to stir the interest of the authorities other than to increase patrol and warn residents to take precaution. 

Most likely this kind of shooting would be treated as an anomaly. An unfortunate, one-of incident. It also kept agencies such as theirs, from raising alert to a possible threat.

It was the modus operandi of low life thugs and gangs that did not have enough sophistication for tradecraft. Drive-by shootings usually had three purposes, as a warning, to take out a rival, or an initiation of a new member. It was doubtful that Kingsman was the target of a local gang. But sometimes gangs freelanced for those with more power.

Gwendoyn mentioned that it was quite possible that whomever or whatever wanted them out of the picture had outsourced or contracted the job. It would pose even less risk for the controlling party. On the other hand, anytime an organization no longer took care of wet work “in-house” there was always the possibility for indiscretion, for leaks. There was no honor amongst thieves for these kinds of criminals. The only means to motivate them was either through money or power or the fear of losing both.

If this adversary wanted Kingsman off the board, they had power and influence that went deep. Eggsy mentioned if they were able to identify both Harry and himself, have access to their schedule and whereabouts for any given day, that meant they had the resources for hi-tech surveillance. Setting up counter-surveillance should take precedence.

Not necessarily, Gwendolyn had pointed out. Sure it was time consuming and repetitive, but she was able to surveil the same, determine the same schedule, gather the same intel just by physical reconnaissance. Even though she had been a near constant presence for two weeks, she had not raised any suspicions. She was there, expecting Harry and Eggsy, just as the vehicle was. There was no sense setting up hi- tech counter surveillance if the adversary wasn’t using high technology surveillance to begin with.

Sometimes, low-tech, low-fi, the least expected method was the one that was used BECAUSE of it’s near obsolescence. Gwendolyn emphasized that they shouldn’t rely just on tech to determine who the enemy was. Curious since one of her main strengths was in tech, but her father had always emphasised not to let her talents and skills become a crutch. A good agent looked at all angles of a problem, not just the angle that gave her the best view.

The Golden Circle left a large void in the criminal world that needed to be filled. Luckily, for Kingsman, that meant a lot of in-house fighting and attempts to gain power. Deals and alliances were made and broken. Backs were stabbed. Retribution was had. As challenging as it was to broker a deal in legitimate business matters, it was exponentially more risky when you were dealing with individuals who robbed, lied and killed for a living.

——

On an average London afternoon, slightly cloudy and overcast, with an occasional peek of sunshine through the clouds, Kingsman debated matters of life and death.

They were all seated at the long table in the new dining room, discussing the new threat. The table consisted of Gwendolyn, Agent Tequila, Galahad Sr. and Galahad Jr. They really had to do something about those codenames. But apparently, the name had significance to both Harry and Eggsy and neither of them was ready to give up the handle. 

Ever since the betrayal of long-standing agents in both organizations, Chester King, the Arthur that betrayed Harry and Kingsman, and the discovery of Agent Whiskey as a traitor in Statesman, and of course, the destruction of Kingsman and all of its agents, they were taking more care of who was on a need to know basis. In this case, the circle was a small one. Harry and Eggsy, since they were the targets, Gwendolyn for obvious reasons, and Agent Tequila, whose fresh eyes might be able to discern nuances they had overlooked. It was just as well the group was small. The other remaining active Kingsman were all in the field on other assignments. Everyone was having to do more with less.

Gwendolyn was seated at the head of this small gathering, not that she was taking up the mantle of Arthur. Since she was present at the time of the shooting, had reconnoitred the area and had the most actionable intel so far, she was assigned monitor for this little conference. It was one of her first times leading a meeting at Kingsman. Herding cats seemed suddenly very relatable. She was never one to be nervous or doubt her abilities, but the presence of three alpha males, each with strong personalities and convictions, two whose lives could depend on the conversation, kept her at the top of her game. 

They were discussing the possibilities when Gwendolyn surmised.

“The way I see it, we are all agreed this was not a random shooting.”

Harry nodded. With his brow drawn together in concentration, he was listening intently. Eggsy, twiddling his pen, was still pissed that they hadn’t even had a chance to return fire at the tossers. Agent Tequila was staring at Gwendolyn, throwing her a wink every time she glanced in his direction.

She chose to ignore everyone except Harry. 

She was cautious not to let her gaze rest on him too long. Despite their evening together in the lounge, Harry treated her exactly the same as he always had. Helpful and kind. Still critical in moments where he knew she could do better. Supportive when he needed to be. He didn’t distance himself in any way. He was comfortable at her side, lightly touching her shoulder, her hand, her back when it was appropriate. If anything, she was modifying her own behaviour. She was careful not to touch him first or stand too close. If she knew he was nearby or heard his footsteps, with his stride long and purposeful, her body would tense and her heart would beat faster as he approached. 

If her eyes wandered and accidentally caught his gaze, he would throw her a wink and the tiniest hint of a smile before she had the chance to look away. This new twinkle was the only change that she noticed. She had to struggle not to blush every time she saw it. She was determined not to blush in front of these three agents. She spoke clearly and with authority. 

“This was a very specific attempt to hit very specific targets. In cases where low-fi is used, it is typically implemented when the actual adversary is either extremely powerful, well known, or technologically advanced, perhaps all three and therefore, wants to avoid using their own resources so they can remain unknown.” 

“What about catching the perps?” suggested Eggsy, who still wanted to deliver a job to the face to someone, at the very least.

“The chances of apprehending the actual shooters is slim, but we can still approach that angle.” 

She thought for a moment, then added.

“Perhaps we can give them an incentive to inform on their employer. However, I’m sure they have been threatened in the extreme to NOT cooperate with anyone seeking their information. In any case, we may be wasting time looking at a dead end.”

Her father had always looked at the bigger picture and she concentrated on doing the same. 

“What I find most suspicious, is the lack of direct, beneficial outcome resulting in the elimination of the targets.”, she said seriously. She was searching for the improbable.

“Thanks, yeah, for putting it so warmly.” Eggsy said, vaguely amused.

She raised her eyebrows a him, shaping her face into someone that should not be interrupted.

Agent Tequila offered his view point. It wasn’t very helpful, either.

“Seems like someone just wants to get rid of Kingsman. That’s one long ass streak of bad luck.” He shook his head. “Sorry boys, it looks like ya’ll got a lot of folks who wanna see you go down.”

Gwendolyn circled the conversation back to the topic at hand. 

“What I mean is, what’s the goal?” 

“Eh, to kill us, obviously.” Eggsy said pointedly, looking at the others for agreement. He leaned back in his chair. He assumed that was evident.

“Of course.” Gwendolyn explained with more patience than she felt. 

“That’s the action.” She added, questioning, “What is the equal and opposite reaction that they are expecting to achieve?”

She focused on Harry and Eggsy.

“The two of you are obviously integral to Kingsman, but as someone who has been part of the beating heart of these kinds of agencies, they’re going about it the wrong way.”

“How so?” asked Harry. At least he was being encouraging.

“If your goal is to disable an organization, you don’t get rid of the players in the field.” She explained.

“You take out a source of power, such as information, communications. You wipe out their computer system, or target their armoury, or drain their funds. If you are going to take someone off the board, you take out the person who controls access. Sabotage. Make them inoperable, so that no matter how many men they have, no matter how large their army, they are not able to fight. They no longer have means of support.”

At the mention of sabotoge, armoires, wiping out systems, the other two men listened to her with increasing interest.

“That leaves the adversary free to continue their illegal activities without interruption. Not having to deal with threats gives them more resources for whatever generates them money and or power.” 

“Not to offend, but after the beating the agency took after V-Day and the absolute knock out from The Golden Circle, most of your efforts have been on regrouping, rebuilding, reestablishing Kingsman’s presence. Kingsman has been mostly laying low. If you were on a revenge list, or you had an enemy that wanted to destroy Kingsman for good, that would have been the most opportune time. While the agency was at its weakest.”

She paused, making sure the men were both paying attention and following her train of thought. Her mind was working on all the possibilities. Experience told her that this was not a simple case of retribution. She was narrowing in on her point. 

“Taking out two random agents - “ 

Eggsy drew back his head and balked, “Beg your pardon. Random?”

Even Harry looked vaguely offended.

Male egos, Gwendolyn thought. 

“No offence meant of course. But, ultimately, when you get to the crux of it, in the end you are both agents. Exceptional agents, without a doubt. But taking out two agents, without a focused skill that the organisation’s structure relies on, has no point.”

“Unless,” she said, “that IS the point.” 

Now the three agents all had the similar look of confusion on their faces. Three sets of furrowed brows and narrowed eyes turned toward her for clarification. 

“Assassination.” She arrived at her point and from here, she was thinking out loud as much as presenting them with information.

Harry was intrigued and nodded slightly to himself. Eggy looked equally surprised and thoughtful. Even Tequila stopped looking at her as if she were a county fair ride he wanted to hop on and started to look involved.

“Assassination has two main purposes. To take out a political figure, a head of state, to disrupt the flow of command. Or, to demoralise the people under their leadership. In your case, you’ve already lost your head of state twice in the past two years.”

She turned to Harry. 

“Harry, you’re not even officially Arthur. In fact, Kingsman is yet to designate a permanent head of state. Eliminating that position would do little to disrupt your chain of command. That logic is flawed.”

She continued to clear her path of reasoning, sifting the crucial from the non-essential.

“What’s left?” She asked.

“To demoralise the soldiers?” She made a point of looking around at the empty chairs.

“What soldiers? Most of your agency was destroyed, the agents killed. There are only a handful of working agents who are all out in the field. Most of them are not even in contact until their mission is complete. I have the feeling that we could all be blown up again and those agents would just continue on with their daily operations.”

“That’s lovely.” murmured Eggsy.

“It’s true, though.” Harry said in support. Most of the agents in the field, the few that they had, were more than capable of handling their missions on their own with little support from HQ.

She leaned back into her chair until they were all awaiting her to continue. Assassination, was an interesting motive, aside from the actual killing and dying aspect.

“Another reason for an assassination,” she was honing the idea in her mind as she was speaking, “Is to show the power of the organisation behind the killing.”

Her eyes narrowed as she circled her conclusion.

“I believe this was a show.” Her voice was low, secure with her words. Not too dissimilar from a gang initiation ritual, she thought.

“I theorise that this was an attempt of an organisation who has newly arrived into power. They are solidifying their new position by making a statement and asserting dominance over their rivals.”

The men began to shift in their seats, uncomfortable at the thought of a new powerful adversary.

“Please, gentleman. Hear me out.” 

At the sound of being addressed gentleman, all three agents straightened up and, with respect, gave Gwendolyn their attention. There were some benefits of being a lady in a room full of men.

“What both of you are,” she said, speaking to both of the Galahads, “is venerated in the intelligence community and feared by the network of criminals around the world.”

She turned toward the younger, brash agent by Harry’s side. “Eggsy, you almost single handedly took out Richmond Valentine and stopped V-Day from being the world catastrophe that it could have been.”

He shrugged, a rare show of modesty for him. Though Gwendolyn had an inkling that he was being facetious. The shrug was more in the lines of “Who, what? Me? Nah, it was nothin.”

Now she turned to the older of the two. Fully engaged in the subject matter, Gwendolyn did not let her eye contact falter this time. 

“Harry is part of spy lore now. Let all alone all that he’s done in the course of his career. And then to have survived Valentine’s bullet to the face? Essentially cheated death and to return in time to thwart the largest global hostage situation in history? With Eggsy? Of course, all missions are covet. Classified. But word gets around through underground channels. For those on either side of good or evil. They must be aware of your existence. They’ve heard of your missions. They might not know exactly who you are, but apparently someone does.”

Harry, in his own dignified manner, accepted the compliments as a matter of fact.

“After the collapse of the Golden Circle, what better opportunity for those in the underworld to try to make a grab for power? It was all of their infighting that allowed you the time and space to rebuild. It seems like their restructuring is in place. Now, whoever has filled the void, needs to establish the new pecking order. What better way than to take out the two most recognisable agents from one of the oldest, most respected agencies?” She asked the men rhetorically.

Gwendolyn knew what action needed to be taken. 

“We need to know who the new power players are.” She said firmly.

The timing was outstanding. “Now what is the be all and end all, of all Galas? Where only the richest, the most famous, and the most powerful go to see and be seen. THE event that not only national governments around the world use to network, but also the leaders that work underground, through less legitimate channels?

Harry and Eggsy looked at each other. They came to the same conclusion.

“The Monarch’s Ball.” They both said.

“Exactly.” Gwendolyn said emphatically.

“Sounds like a party.” Agent Tequila added.

This time, Harry, Eggsy and Gwendolyn confirmed simultaneously.

“It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Will continue to post as chapters keep forming. Comments are always appreciated :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anomaly in Gwendolyn’s routine sparks suspicion within Kingsman’s ranks. Harry Hart dusts off his surveillance skills to ease any misgivings regarding her whereabouts and her intentions.

Adopting his customary long and deliberate strides, Harry Hart walked through the door to his office. His impeccable black oxfords kept time with every step he took on the polished hardwood floor. They muffled when he reached the antique Axeminster rug under his desk, named after the small Devon town where it was originally made. He pulled out his chair, sat back and stretched out his legs.

The interior of his mind normally reflected the order of his exterior surroundings. Harry’s office at the shop was precise, exacting and organised, almost to a fault. It was the stronghold of a man with focus, discipline, and purpose. Only essential items lined his desk. A leather desk blotter. Two pens neatly lined up side by side. His laptop. Current mission portfolio. A letter tray. A sterling cufflink box. All lit with a utilitarian silver architect’s desk lamp. Uncluttered. Unlike his desk, his thoughts were disordered. Harry was preoccupied. One thought refused to fall in line. Another rarity for him.

Resting an elbow on the arm of his chair, he leaned slightly to the side and let his chin perch on his loosely fisted hand. If he had a beard, he would be tempted to stroke it in a ruminative manner, but his jaw was smooth and clean shaven as he was every day.An anomaly prickled his spy instinct. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, midday, Gwendoyn, without fail, would politely refuse the offer of afternoon tea. No matter who extended the invitation, whether it be Harry, Eggsy or any other agent or support staff. She would gracefully but firmly decline, excise herself from whomever she was speaking with and take her leave through the front doors of the shop.

Gwendolyn, reserved as she was, had interwoven herself with admirable effort into the fabric of what was Kingsman’s day to day routine. Since she took residence at the manor, she could often be seen on location, participating in training, drills, or target practice. She was quick to offer her assistance to other agents with their technique. The kennels were also a frequent stop in her daily itinerary. While not the owner of a dog herself, she could be relied on caring for the animals whose handlers were on assignment.

She took initiative at meetings. She put careful thought and deliberation into her reports. Her observations were keen, her strategy impressive. And while Gwendolyn did not always partake in the rousing conversations and heated debates that took place in the lounge between Kingsman agents, she could be found sipping her drink along the edges, watching the volley of words back and forth like a bemused spectator. Her defiant, headstrong demeanour had softened into something not quite gregarious, but rather a sort of reserved camaraderie. She was making an effort. Her father would have been proud of her.

That did not mean Gwendolyn was without mystery. The one exception Gwendolyn always made was afternoon tea, two days of the week. Without explanation, in her set, but courteous way, she would excuse herself for a period of several hours. During which time she, who otherwise was almost invariably found on Kingsman property, vanished in the wind. She was not one to offer more information on her activity or disclose her whereabouts. Her hard pass on the invitation and her failure to elaborate made it evident that she did not care to be questioned. Since she declined with manners on par with any blue blood, matching Kingsman’s impeccable standards for deportment, further inquiry would be a breach of etiquette. As a result, no one questioned her.

With her natural adaptability and her talent for quiet observation, Gwendolyn sanded off any rough edges of her personality that could potentially clash with the well oiled machine that was Kingsman. She refined her bearing so it was held beyond reproach. Having spent years relying on her own judgement and preference, she tucked away her instinctive, often cavalier attitude, cultivated through years of independence.Her movement was defined by a lightness and grace that put others around her at ease. The sound of her voice was distinctive, low and steady, relaxed in conversations without sharpness that could cut and injure. Assertive, when it needed to be, yet still feminine. 

Gwendolyn was forthright and direct in her words and actions, yet she remained the unknown factor in a challenging equation. A mystery that Harry Hart tried to solve, but found himself without an answer. Nor had anyone else. Unfailingly polite and well-mannered, she got well on with everyone. But Gwendolyn was also a master at the pleasant and open expression that was trustworthy to those around her, while betraying no thoughts or emotions of her own. She was an expert at coaxing information out of others, gaining confidence, while revealing nothing of herself. She preferred it that way.

——

“Gwendolyn’s out, yeah?” Eggsy popped his head in Harry’s office. Looking sharp, his hair was slicked back, black framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He made a passing remark that she was unavailable, immediately ducking out again before Harry could say a word.He was left alone with only his thoughts.

Her absences began to tug on Harry’s suspicions as well as his curiosity. Kingsman was a tightly knit organisation. Its success relied on transparency. There was an unspoken code to respect each other’s private time and space away from work, but little was unknown about each other’s habits, extra curricular activities and interests. Harry knew his butterfly collection was inspiration for quite a number of jests that had circulated over the years. Word even spread of Agent Tequila’s colourful past across the pond as a rodeo clown. With the possibility of being called quicker than a moments notice, it was near impossible to keep whereabouts private on all occasions. Kingsman agents needed to be available and reachable in case of emergency, such as saving the world from catastrophic destruction.

Unable to stop himself, Harry sat up and flipped open his laptop. After all, in his line of work, suspicion was a prerequisite.His fingers passed quickly over the keyboard as he typed his password to access the Kingsman GPS. The navigation system tracked the coordinates and transmitted the locations of agents worldwide. He scanned the screen until he spotted Gwendolyn’s profile. Her point was greyed out. She had turned off her tracker. But why?He adjusted his glasses and then rested his fingertips on the edge of the frame. Wanting to extend her the benefit of the doubt, he sat back in his chair and ran a hand behind his head, smoothing down the hair that was already perfectly in place. Between mulling something over or acting on a hunch, Harry Hart unfailingly chose action. He logged off his laptop, closed it shut and stood from his chair. Taking a moment to brush the front of his suit with his palm and adjust his cuffs, he left his office to trace her whereabouts.

Harry need not have hurried for Gwendolyn hadn’t traveled far. He eyed her waiting at the front reception desk. Finding it empty, she paused briefly before reaching for a slip of paper and a pen. Her hand looped in quick strokes as she wrote a brief message and pinned it to the top of a folded article of clothing.She carefully placed it behind the desk before turning toward the doors that opened to the street. Shortly after she was out of view, he headed straightaway to the desk and scanned her message. Nothing more than a simple repair request for the tailors. He thumbed the folded material and recognised her flack jacket. No secret code. No secret message.

Walking to either corner of Saville Row would take Gwendolyn but a few minutes. Harry needed to catch her before she turned. Swiftly, so as not to lose her, he strode through the double doors and stopped momentarily in the shop’s vestibule. Opening the outer door slightly, a cool draft swirled into the small space. He glanced to the left. Clear. He checked right and spotted her walking down the pavement. She held nothing more on her person than what he saw. Most likely, she had only her phone, tucked in her pocket. When she arrived at the corner, she made a right. He walked to the end of Saville Row and peered around the last shop. Her hair bounced lightly on her shoulders as she headed away from him. She was traveling across Old Burlington St and down Burlington Gardens. Harry hadn’t been tasked with street surveillance in years, but spy habits, especially the long term, ingrained practices, were hard to break and he fell into an easy rhythm.

Was she was conceivably running errands or taking a brief afternoon shopping? The idea of her participating in everyday activities or outings that women of her age enjoyed, perhaps stopping for a cuppa with other female companions, somewhere outside of Kingsman, seemed implausible. She wasn’t exhibiting any surreptitious behaviour, other than the fundamental habits of any spy. She took no more precautions than any other young woman walking down the street.

Once she reached Burlington Gardens, where it was bisected with Cork, she briefly checked the one-way street. The mid afternoon traffic was light and the road was clear. Harry lingered at an appropriate distance and browsed through the windows of an intimate cafe where patrons conversed in small tables overlooking the street. From the reflection in the glass, he saw her cross to the other side.

Continuing in the same direction, she arrived at the intersection of Burlington Gardens and Bond Street. The posh thoroughfare was home to the most exclusive shops in London. The city, being one of the fashion capitols of the world, was the host to numerous luxury brands, where those with deep pockets could purchase whatever they thought might bring them happiness. The store fronts, displaying shiny, sparkling, and expensive wares, lined the street.

Gwendolyn proceeded to the other side of Bond Street. Was the lure of robin’s egg blue, the signature colour of Tiffany Co., the American jewellers, too hard for any woman to resist?Even for one who could sharpshoot a key fob from someone’s hand at 20 yards? Confined to Kingsman SHQ for most of her life, perhaps she was allowing herself the freedom to participate in quiet pleasures. Like contemplating the brilliance of diamonds sparkling from a hundred different angles. The sight held her for only a few moments, but during that time, the glow of the window display lit up her face and the space around her. There was no looking around, no chalk marks, no dead drop. Solely a young woman standing in front of Tiffany. She was an image lifted from a picture postcard, a lovely woman taking a few heartbeats to appreciate the beauty and craftsmanship of a fine piece of jewellery.

What had caught her eye, he pondered? What emotions were stirred by the sight of the beautiful jewels? While Gwendolyn continually appeared polished and well presented, she seemed to have little interest in designers, labels or displays of material wealth.

Unless it was Kingsman tailored, Harry had no idea where the items she wore came from, whether they bore designer labels or not. He had an inkling that she was interested more in the design, quality, craftsmanship, fit and function of what she wore. She was never limited or constricted by her wardrobe, as some women might be to maintain the current look or latest fashion. Her style of dress, Harry thought, was both sexy and ladylike. She was, without fail, impeccably dressed. A quality Harry could appreciate.Whenever he saw her, she was wearing something with a distinctive fabric or texture, an unexpected cut, a fluid design, intricate or simple details that accentuated her figure and enhanced her in some way whether it be her femininity, strength, poise, or elegance. And like Harry, whatever she wore, she wore it well and without effort.

Harry took advantage of this impromptu expedition to enjoy whatever meagre sun peeked through the clouds. Late summer gave way to early fall and the air adopted the crisp, brisk edge that announced the shifting of seasons. It was the time of year when the air became fragrant with fallen leaves, damp pavement and the burning of wood fireplaces. Gwendolyn was dressed for this transition in a look that Harry found very attractive. Contrary to the idea that spies wore all black and lurked in the darkness, female spies utilised their physical attributes in their favour. Unlike the first haphazard evening they had met, when she was performing real world surveillance, she was outfitted in a way that expressed her form and figure to her full advantage.

Far removed from the nondescript, shapeless blacks and greys she wore to mask her identity, this afternoon she stood out among the well heeled patrons walking the pavement. If he could sum up her appearance in one word, he would describe it as “alluring”. It had the power to entice, captivate and mesmerise. Harry’s mind took a snapshot of how she looked, as he did with any other target, but he placed Gwendolyn’s with all the other images of her he had stored away in a remote location. A hidden place that remained partitioned from the rest of his mind.

Both romantic and sophisticated, her refined look was perfect for Bond Street. A soft white silk blouse buttoned all the way up to her chin with a delicate lace trim. A long sash of the same fabric was tied around her neck in a large bow with ears that fell like a cravat above her sternum and ends that draped down her chest. The effect was that of a tie, but more fluid and feminine. A deep wine coloured vest, an exceptional cable knit, was layered for additional warmth. The sleeves of her blouse peaked out at her wrists. The cuffs were longer and edged in lace and fell to the base of her thumbs. They were secured with tiny pearl buttons.

Skirts rather than trousers were her preference when appropriate. At present, she wore a Black Watch tartan kilt, the shade of the midnight sky crossed with dark forest greens and blacks . The sharp pleats bounced above her knees as she walked. Short enough to be enticing, but long enough to maintain decorum. Interest would be further aroused if one knew what she was packing under her skirt, in the manner of a spy, of course. Possibly a knife, sheathed in a garter or another discrete, yet deadly weapon. Classic, black patent court shoes with a practical stacked heel and stockinged legs carried her down the street.

Instead of a coat or trench, a lightweight wool cape in a similar shade of burgundy draped over her shoulders. The hem, which fell just past her fingertips, was finished with leather piping in the same colour. He noted the small details that had probably appealed to her. At her sternum, the cape was clasped with a gold broach engraved with the Kingsman insignia, the symbol of a wild boar, an animal heralded as a courageous and fierce warrior. The plackets at the shoulders were secured with gold D-rings and reinforced with the same leather as the trim. A luxurious silk lining in an even darker wine red, contrasted with the earthiness of wool. Deep, rich jewel tones were offset with hints of eggshell white at her wrists and throat. He understood her choice of a cape. It provided more flexibility to disguise whatever weapon she chose to carry, whether it be a shoulder holster as the male agents used, or even tucked under the waistband of her kilt. She would have to worry less about her firearm printing. Since she was lithe, she had to be careful when choosing her wardrobe, making sure whatever she wore could adequately accommodate her gun.

The sides of her hair were pulled back away from her face and secured with a gold clip, which quite possibly had an alternative, spy related function. The rest of her hair pooled down around her back and shoulders in long, dark waves. The slight breeze lifted a few strands that framed her face and moved with the wind.

No occasion had yet required Gwendolyn to wear additional makeup, so her face always appeared natural. Just smooth skin, a hint of pink coloured her cheeks. Her features were highlighted and well groomed. A wash of something warm, dark and shimmery enhanced her eyes. Her lashes were long and ink black. Her lips were touched with a blush of rose.

Harry was cognisant of his purpose. Tail her. Ease any misgivings concerning her whereabouts and her reluctance to disclose that information. Rarely, if ever, did he stray from a task he had set for himself under his own volition. Endeavours others had set for him? Confronted with questionable circumstances, he was known in the past to be brazen and unorthodox in his methodology and problem solving tactics. Often at the strenuous objection of his handler in the form of his code name and expletives combined in very creative and inventive ways. Nevertheless, for a brief stretch of time, he set aside being a spy and simply admired the sight of her walking down the street, as any man would if she passed by. Perhaps it was the same when she stopped in front of a window display, capturing the beauty of a single thing, in an isolated moment.

As he followed behind her, his stature making its easier to keep pace, Harry enjoyed the subtle details measured by his sight, honed through decades of hyperawareness. He appreciated the way her cape and her hair inspired movement. When an object in a window caught her eye, the turn of her head allowed him to behold how the sunlight defined the elegant lines of her profile, and that even the silk bow at her throat bounced lightly with every step. 

Harry, a man who had no patience for daydreams, witnessed these moments as if they were in slow motion. Her hair catching in the breeze and swirling around her face. Her cape as it swayed side to side. The folds of her tartan kilt grazing her thighs, revealing a glimpse of her long legs. Rather than being stuffy or constricted, she felt fluid and graceful, like a figure that was made to be in motion. Every element of what she wore seemed a part of her. She didn’t just wear her clothes, she embodied them and they moved with her.

—-

Harry’s brows drew together as Gwendolyn made another left onto Piccadilly, a fairly lively main drag.If she was looking for privacy, she was searching in the wrong place. She made no questionable moves. No furtive glances, no telling gestures. Only the occasional lift of her hand to brush her hair away from her face. She left no marks. No notes were dropped. No signals made that he could ascertain. However, she was a bloody good spy and tracing her was a test of his own skill.

Viewed through the eyes of a clandestine operative, Harry cataloged the surroundings as a spy and frowned. Her path was too open for a personal meeting. Too many unknown variables. Too much surveillance in the form of CCTVs. Under the current environment, the most probable communication to lookout for would be a lightning contact. Also known as a “brush pass” in the world of espionage, it was a technique used to exchange items with an unknown person in full view of others.Some of the most crucial meetings in Harry’s career had been conducted in less than an instant. A brush contact was a split second while surveying a crowd, one stranger passing another. Just enough to exchange intelligence, a word, a thumb drive.More dangerous than a drop, the transfer was hand to hand. It was so swift and subtle that a busy street with distractions, like Piccadilly, would make a pass even more difficult to detect. 

A quick transaction might appear straightforward and painless, but it was a lesson in timing, coordination and manual dexterity.Separate walking routes were necessary for the agent and contact. The routes needed to meet, briefly, at a “convergence point.” The pass could take place anywhere. Recognition signals were confirmed as the contact approached the agent. A distinctive move might be a man checking his inner left coat pocket, or removing his handkerchief to polish his glassesAs the contact passed, the agent followed them to the specified location and would overtake them, the exchange performed as he did so.After the exchange took place, the agent and contact would disperse in different directions, both with plausible deniability in case they were compromised.

A lightning contact was always in motion and difficult to detect if one didn’t know exactly what one was looking for. Done incorrectly, it was clumsy, distracting and sure to draw attention, let alone possibly compromise the agent, contact or the mission.A brush pass relied on strategy, precision and a bit of sleight of hand. If executed properly, it was effortless, untraceable. Even someone like Harry, with a lifetime of training and experience in surveillance and counter surveillance, could miss it.

On the other hand, it was reasonable that Gwendolyn merely stepped out for a quick stretch of her legs and a breath of air. If she turned left again at the corner, she would have made an almost complete square, arriving back at Saville Row as she started. For all her time spent between the shop and the manor, she must have the need to steal away on occasion. While she looked through the store fronts as she past by, she made no stops or queries. Her pace never changed. She only paused when crossing a street.

Harry was feeling slightly foolish for having followed her, more so if she ended right back at Kingsman. He then might be required to explain where he had been when he arrived back at the shop.Unfortunately, spies did not carry the burden of doubt with grace or dignity. His instincts demanded confirmation.

Finally, Gwendolyn altered her path. She did make a turn to her left, not at the corner, rather halfway down the block. She continued through the enormous wrought iron gates and under the tall arched walkway of Burlington House, the Palladian mansion that was currently home to the Royal Academy of London. The passage opened up to a large public access courtyard where one could observe whatever temporary outdoor exhibition was being displayed, usually something large and sculptural, or to appreciate the historical architecture of the building.

Beyond the archway, the air embraced an atmosphere of nostalgia and romance. One could imagine walking through the space in a different time, a different era. He briefly envisioned her as a student, off to study some esoteric art from an ancient civilisation. What purpose would she have at the academy? Gwendolyn had never expressed any concentrated interest in art or any of its mediums. Acting? Spies often had to assume cover identities, on occasion, deep cover, and live the life of a different person convincingly, sometimes for years. But try as he might, though she was excellent at adopting a character for a cover, he could not picture her with the Academy of Dramatic Arts.Acting consisted of a certain measure of narcissism and need for attention. She had no where near the level of egocentrism necessary to succeed as an actor.

Harry was intrigued. Gwendolyn strode without pause and without hesitation. Her pace was so steady and firm he could hear the sound of her heels striking the bricked ground of the courtyard. He scanned the area for anyone who might be taking a little more than a casual interest in her. Sometimes spies did not seek out their target. Occasionally, they just made themselves available at a certain place at a certain time and let the other individual approach them instead. While she did not look for signs of another person, he glanced around to see if anyone was noticing her beyond the turn of a head to watch as an attractive woman passed by. While he observed many instances of admiration, from men and women alike, he saw nothing out of place. Only some young blokes who might be considering approaching her. Perhaps chatting her up or asking if she fancies a drink. Best of luck mates, he thought. However, he could understand the impulse. Gwendolyn had a look that made her seem almost unattainable, but not quite inaccessible. Without her guard up, as she had the night they first met, she possessed an openness, a softness that she probably didn’t even realise. A presence that granted men the strength and courage to brave the thrill of the ask, and accept the defeat of rejection.

As an agent, this openness worked to Gwendolyn’s advantage. Obtainability was a quality essential in female spies. A woman’s looks, as well as her high emotional intelligence, were weaponised and wielded to seduce. The seduction needn’t always be sexual. It was a tactic that could be harnessed for any kind of interaction. It could be engineered for proximity, for access, as a diversionary tactic, or to extract information. The female agent had to exploit her wiles to charm those in her path. 

Missions of emotional and physical manipulation were sometimes the most dangerous of all. Only a particular breed of woman was capable of this balancing act. Especially in the world of high value targets, those who could buy anything they wanted through wealth or power. A female who could attract these types of men was a woman who could traverse the line between accessible and unattainable. The male target may tire of overly eager or overtly sexual females.Nor could she come off as haughty or too posh or polished lest she appear cold and uninteresting. The first impression was often the only impression a spy could make. With only her appearance and body language, the agent had to convey the message that she may be available, but her accessibility was exclusive. Men, in their attempt to impress, were more apt to spill information. Setting the bar high made her a conquest that gave men the appetite, the hunger for the chase.A female operative, like Gwendolyn, needed cunning, ingenuity and the talent for subterfuge to effectively utilise her uniquely womanly attributes to achieve her objective.

It was certainly working on Harry and he wasn’t even a target.

——-

Gwendolyn’s constant presence played with feelings that were atypical of Harry Hart.Regardless of whatever uncharacteristic befuddlement he experienced at her closeness, he refused to let it become fodder for office gossip. As the consummate professional, Harry still presented himself to the world with his reliable, reassuring confidence and composure.

Like the drifting of continents, these changes were nearly imperceptible. But Harry did not discount that the gradual shift of his emotions had the power to completely alter the landscape of his life. What originated as a natural curiosity regarding the professional expectations of a new member of the team, transformed into a fixation on just how much this individual could veer the course of his personal and private life.

The shift pulled the threads that stitched his day into familiar patterns and unravelled the routine to which he had grown accustomed.Prior to Gwendolyn’s arrival at Kingsman, he typically sought whatever scant solitude he could. Harry, being partial to his own company, would thus find himself pleasantly surprised when sharing her space. He was beginning to look forward to these chance encounters. If there was a day they didn’t cross paths, he was left feeling incomplete. Harry, who prided himself on never seeking more than the present moment had to offer, took matters into his own hands.

Rather than leaving these run-ins subject to a notion as arbitrary and as random as fate, he actively sought opportunities to be near her. Why, just the other day, he had timed his departure from the shop to coincide with her schedule. Harry, with the pinpoint accuracy of a veteran spy, arrived precisely in time to witness her board the train. He called out to hold the car, giving him just enough pause to step in behind her.After exchanging greetings, they sat comfortably across from each other. Neither of them filled the empty space with small talk. They read the paper in silence. Harry, however, in addition to skimming the headlines, darted his eyes from the printed page to the passenger in front of him. He spent the entire ride stealing glances of her neatly crossed legs, the sheaf of dark hair that fell across one shoulder, her clean profile as it reflected the moving shadows whilst the train sped underneath the countryside.

When she broke through his train of thought, he frequently ended up derailing completely. Harry would actually catch himself smiling when his mind wandered into the hidden corners where he tucked his observations of her. He enjoyed the flowing sound of her voice and her dry, clever sense of humour, so similar to his own. Amusement transformed into unexpected delighted when he found himself engaged in a parlay of words and verbal sparring, where she matched him wit for wit.Approval of her quiet tenacity and singular focus to her work transformed into unadulterated respect for her skill and dedication.

All would be well and good if that was the extent of his regard. But of course, the soft, genuine fondness and easy affection Harry felt began to adopt a sharper edge. The line he traced around Gwendolyn was eclipsed by darker, more dangerous emotions. On occasion, he would watch her from a distance, with his hands tucked in his pockets or one hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. Standing on the rear steps of the manor, he was able to spot her as she returned from an afternoon of riding. Harry’s appreciation of her light, feminine grace, as she swung her leg over her horse and dismounted, began to take on a texture that felt heavy, weighty. His esteem became coloured with deeper, primal intentions. Her gentle allure became more enticing. Intrigue developed into fascination, and then, for Harry, temptation.

The passage of time, by no means, diminished her appeal as Harry had anticipated. Each interaction, meeting, and shared meal, every exchange of words, whether a brief salutation or a heated mission review, continued to complicate his feelings. The flashes of her he caught from the corner of his eye as he passed through the shop, or examining her stance in the shooting range, cast shadows that blurred his sense of reason. The accidental brushes when crossing through the halls of the manor, random bumps when exiting and entering a room at the same time, only seemed to provoke less than gentlemanly inclinations. Fleeting moments of touch while exchanging a pen, or signing a paper she held in her hand, the briefest second when he felt her skin against his, felt increasingly visceral.

What was once protective guidance became veiled with possessive conditioning. While Harry instructed Gwendolyn on the protocol expected of agents, he found himself incorporating his own personal preferences, ways she could meet his own specific requirements for approval. He ignored his own flattery when he spotted her adopting his habits, routine and behaviour. 

After spending his days interacting with her, even with the most innocent and benign of intentions, Harry was left unsettled. When he, at last, walked into the bedroom of his flat, shedding his Kingsman suit of armour, hanging everything in its place, arranging his oxfords side by side, dropping his cufflinks into their small box, when the last of his shields fell aside, did he lie back onto the familiar comfort of his bed. Far too frequently, only when the seductive darkness of the night cloaked his better judgement, did he take the evidence of his desire in his hand, finally permitting himself physical gratification.

Closing his eyes against the rest of the world, Harry was free to contemplate the way her own grey eyes lit upon seeing him, the scent of her hair as she leaned into his side to whisper an observation he might find interesting. The smoothness of her skin as even the lightest touch burned into the memory of his own. And as much as he tried to pass it off as a moment of harmless flirtation, the memory of how willingly Gwendolyn allowed herself to be overcome by him, without artifice, without hesitation, with not even a single touch or word exchanged between them, fired his own need.

He wanted her immensely. He wanted to experience her intimately. He wanted to possess her and be possessed by her. So Harry allowed himself to imagine. Not as a spy, not determining outcomes or consequences, tactics or strategies. As how a man would imagine a woman. The sight of her bare and vulnerable as he undressed her. The warmth of her palms as she held him in her hands. The feel of her lips against the most sensitive part of him. And then the slick heated wetness as she took him in her mouth. Her velvet tongue and soft lips licking and sucking at him. He could picture her perhaps hesitant at first, kneeling between his legs, tentative, curious and gentle and then pleasuring him with growing intensity.

Harry let out a low groan at this vision, letting it consume him. He worked himself harder, wondering what she would feel like under him, spreading her thighs for him. His desire strip to her of her defences, to witness her raw and real, to penetrate her, to experience the sensation of sinking into her for the first time, was so strong it was nearly painful. Without any further restraint, he moved his hand faster, the tremble of her imagined cries echoed in his ears along with the sounds of his own approaching climax. The thought of moving inside of her, reaching the very depth of her, watching her as he gave her the very pleasure that he was giving himself urged him to heights that he was rarely brought to on his own.He gritted his teeth as he drove himself over his edge, the power of the orgasm burst through his entire body, causing it to flex and clench and jerk for what seemed an infinite amount of time in which he surrendered to pure, uninhibited sensation.

His breath was heavy and ragged. The strength of his spasms left his muscles spent. His body was lax. Harry’s thoughts were finally quiet. He would have to rise and wash up before settling down for the night. As he pushed himself off the bed, he knew he was treading a precarious line between his professional responsibilities and his personal feelings. But it was the only way he could release her from his mind and create the space that would invite sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, comments feedback, a "hi there" are much appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During his surveillance, Harry Hart recalls a past mission. He discovers Gwendolyn in an unusual and unexpected circumstance.

Harry Hart reigned his thoughts back to the present. He took a rare moment to remonstrate himself. Excessive self-indulgence was a luxury he could not afford. Nor was reliving said indulgence. It was impulsive and reckless and he was neither of those things. As a spy, one could never take one’s own emotions at face value. It was a presumption too dangerous to risk. If an agent found himself behaving outside of his norm, it was his responsibility to determine who or what was the cause before the threat could possibly compromise or cause irreparable harm.

Was Gwendolyn trying to purposely confuse and distract him? He was becoming increasingly unbalanced in her presence. Was she attempting to make him fall for her? Was he falling for her? Had it been so long since he felt anything of the sort that it was hard for him to distinguish suspicion with attraction? His eyes narrowed at the disconcerting thought.Ulterior motives were the catalyst of a mole, a plant, a double agent. The idea was preposterous. Utterly inconceivable. But Harry admitted that as a man, it was much easier to accept that a woman’s affections were genuine, rather than admit she might have ill intentions. Yet as a spy, one always had to question even the most innocuous and benign of circumstances.

Harry had to consider that Gwendolyn was equally as well trained as any other agent. That instruction would include the seductive arts, which was its own branch of espionage.Spies utilised every mode of defence and every weapon of attack in their arsenal. Sometimes the most lethal tool was not a gun, a knife, or a piece of complex technology. Under the correct set of circumstances, the most versatile, adaptable, and deadly weapon was one’s own mind and body. Gwendolyn’s intellect, beauty, poise, mastery of neurolinguistics, and vast knowledge made her an ideal operative. There were agents, both men and women, where seduction alone was their specialty.Rather than firing guns, they cultivated relationships, weaponised seduction, sex, intimacy and romance. The mission? To make their target fall for them, by whatever means necessary.The agent would use that desire to keep their mark off balance, to confuse and control them, to uncover actionable intel or compromise them to elicit information.The relationship could function as a distraction, incentive, cover story, or any other part of an intelligence operation. 

As unlikely and disheartening as it would seem, it was a possibility that, unfortunately, Harry could not discount without solid proof. As for possible motives? He, as well as Eggsy, were responsible in part for her father’s death. Allegiances had been renounced for much lesser transgressions. However well she seemed to have accepted Hamish’s passing, was it ever truly possible to see into the heart of a spy? Whose entire existence revolved around lies and falsehoods? Being a spy was walking the tightrope between trust and deceit. Every interaction was shadowed with uncertainty. Two cardinal rules of being a spy, whether male or female, do not trust and never, ever fall in love. For a spy, the most dangerous threat could be the one whom shared one’s bed.

Yes, her presence forced Harry to question his own feelings as well as her motives. But that was not the only reason he found himself preoccupied. Gwendolyn’s unexpected appearance at Kingsman forced him to recall a mission he had long since filed away…

—

For spies, rabbit holes were not only a downward spiral of “what ifs”, they could also be questions of “what could have been”.Harry spoke from personal experience. He himself had lived a cover where he was tasked to convincingly portray the role of a suitor.The cover, which he had maintained for almost a year, forced him to essentially blur the lines of reality, the demarcations of who he was and who he feigned to be.A good spy could assume a cover. But an exceptional spy had to do more than just pretend. One had to become the cover. And hope that one’s core identity still survived the passage of time.

Harry’s mission was to seduce the daughter of a prominent leader involved in trafficking WMD’s. It was one of the first assignments that challenged not only his expertise in tradecraft, but also his heart. The deception wore at his emotional resilience. It tugged at his conscience. It challenged his humanity. But most of all, it forced him to question just how much he was willing to sacrifice for the greater good.

One of the most difficult missions as a spy was to gain the trust of an innocent party in order to gather intelligence on the true target.If one possessed any form of decency, it was nearly impossible to remain emotionally detached. In his case, Harry’s mark took the form of a beautiful, virtuous, honest, completely blameless young woman who secretly abhorred the dealings of her father and family. She saw Harry as a man who had the strength and moral standing to resist the lure of her connections to wealth and power. Genuinely kind hearted, she was everything good and decent. Despite the sins of her family, she remained unblemished by their treachery and greed.If fate had led him to a different life, beyond the life of a spy, he imagined that he would one day propose to such a woman. As life was filled with irony, such was his task.

When adopting a cover for a prolonged period of time, when the mission required developing a close, even intimate relationship with a target, it was impossible to hold up a lie and remain convincing long term. Inevitably, one would tire and the guise would falter. Eventually, the mark would sense counterfeit emotion, hesitation when answering a question, a tone of voice that sounded left of center, a moment of quiet discord, just as an expert would recognise fake currency merely by the sight of a stack of bills. One had to exist as if the mission was the truth and live the cover fully. 

Diametrically opposed to the strategy of turning off one’s emotions, deep cover required experiencing emotion completely and thoroughly, without inhibition. It was not enough to merely appear convincing, one must be authentic, genuine and real. An honest, intelligent woman in love was one of the most perceptive individuals to ever look at a man. If she felt her love to be true, legitimate, and her man worthy of her love, there was no extent that would limit the lengths she would go for him. But if there was a hint of doubt of her suitors true intentions, she could close off her heart and he would lose her forever. In Harry’s case, any whiff of deceit, could also cost his mission, to say nothing of his own life.

It was unsettling how easily he was able to court her and fall into her families good graces. Harry was at the very height of his prime, embodying his potential in looks, intelligence and physical prowess to the fullest extent. Any woman would be hard pressed to resist his advances. He didn’t doubt his ability to capture her attention, or concern himself with his competition. The premise of the mission was straight forward and simple. He was taken aback when he found himself reciprocating her feelings with equal measure and intensity. Fully committing to the mission, meant fully committing to her and he did so with his entire being, emotionally, mentally, and physically.Seduction was much more than pursuing ones affections. It was a psychological hunt that preyed on human vulnerabilities. Sometimes, in that pursuit, a decoy was not enough. Sometimes, one had to offer up the real thing. It was a complicated matter.

The collateral damage from the mission would compromise his future relationships. As an essentially honest man, a man with integrity, a man with a heart that was good and true, Harry was able to recognise that she possessed the same characteristics. All he felt for her, all he felt with her, had been real. He had fallen for his mark. It was the only possible way to succeed in his mission.It was the the weight, not of his deception, but of his ultimate betrayal of her pure heart that would remain a dark brand on his own.

Harry recalled the first time he was intimate with her. It was how he knew that he had fully accomplished his task. While he was experienced in sexual matters, both in the field and in his private life, she went to him untouched by any man.It was her personal belief that the first and only man to ever have her, would be her intended, a sacred act only to be consummated after marriage. But Harry was a hard man to resist. After he became her betrothed, confident in his commitment and in their future together, she gave in to temptation and allowed him to take her to his bed. Harry was torn between his own desire, his need to make the experience real and meaningful for her, and his vow as a Kingsman agent. It was the oath that would force him maintain the cold separation that would, one day, enable him to betray her. And in the end, he did.

After he was extracted and the mission complete, when her father was neutralised and his organisation dismantled, Harry resisted the urge to review the final dossier to see what had become of the man’s daughter. He knew that happy endings were too much to hope for, especially with that much money, power, and corruption involved. Severe repercussion was almost a guarantee. Despite his high-security clearance, the only file was heavily redacted. It had been edited especially in order to obscure or remove sensitive information regarding post-operation blowback. Apparently, the details of the fallout were explosive enough to remain classified. ****

He discovered years later, that the daughter had been targeted by his enemies for retribution, but there were no further records.By that time, he was a seasoned agent with the skills to compartmentalise and armour himself from sentimentality, but his experience with her existed just beyond the borders that protected him from developing attachments. It was the only mission in his past that blurred the lines of Harry Hart the man, and Galahad the Kingsman agent.

He did not believe in karma or fate or destiny, but the parallels were disconcerting. Purity, honesty and innocence were no defence against a well-set honey trap. Neither were chivalry, strength of character, or integrity. Sometimes, these traits could make one more susceptible.And, as in normal life, no strategy could take into account that a romance begun in deceit might actually turn into a genuine, passionate affair. Or that a romance one thought was genuine could ultimately end in betrayal. And no amount of planning could take into account the consequence of either such relationship.

———

Harry, repeatedly, pulled himself out of the rabbit hole of the past and redirected his attention to his present surveillance. Moving along the perimeter of the courtyard, he maintained Gwendolyn’s sight in his peripheral. He found cover behind the large art installation, an abstract sculpture designed with massive sheets of welded metal, bent and curved into unique shapes. It reflected the afternoon light, shooting sharp, blinding flashes in every direction. He paused near a group of middle aged tourists, letting their shuffling break up the lines of his body. His height was a disadvantage in this situation. He made a point to slouch a little. Otherwise, the courtyard was completely open. Cover was limited. He fell a little farther behind as she entered one of the doors of the Academy’s curved entryway.

Sliding in after her, he stood in the shadow of the front hall. Harry knew better than to start looking around. Instead, he relied on his hearing, rather than sight. He stood quietly and listened. Her light, quick footsteps, the distinctly feminine sound of heels on a stone floor echoed through the space. Not to the right, nor the left, but up. Gwendolyn was taking the staircase. The cover of the switchbacks made it easier for him to trail after her. The sound of her court shoes rose up three flights to the top of the building. He didn’t have the layout of Burlington House memorised, but he recalled the top floors were reserved for open studio space for art students.

With the impression of her steps in the forefront of his mind, Harry heard her walk about ten paces down the hallway and if his ears were correct, entered a room on her left. Double doors were opened. He could tell by the reverb of the latch and hinges and the click of the lock tongue falling into place. He didn’t hear a second turn to indicate that she had locked the door behind her.

After the door latched shut, stepping lightly in his own oxfords, Harry took the remaining stone risers to the top floor, scanning the space as soon as it was in view. A large central hall ran down the length of the floor, with a line of doors to the left, windows overlooking the courtyard to the right. Moving to the first set of doors, the windows revealed a studio space filled with light. Easels and sawhorses and large drawing pads, canvas and paints waited patiently. A still life was set to the side. No hint of echoing voices or background clatter suggested people in action. Yet the emptiness seemed to have a sound. The absence of noise possessed weight, as if it had substance. He was careful not to disturb it.

Three sets of doors. She was in the center.

The sight past the second set of doors was startling enough to throw him off guard. Harry instinctively drew back from the tall, rectangular window that ran vertically along the height of the door. How long had it been since he felt the flush of heat upon seeing something he shouldn’t have? Walked in on someone doing something private, who wasn’t the target of a mission? His heart beat a little faster. His blood pulsed a little harder. He blinked. Gwendolyn was removing her clothes.

Curiosity prevailed over discretion. Mindful of not being seen, he took a second look. While she was technically undressing, Harry realised that the circumstance was not inappropriate. Full length mirrors lined two sides of the room. Large paned windows ran along the third. The floor was finished with grey vinyl. Ballet bars lined the walls. Since Gwendolyn was the first thing that caught his eye, he didn’t have a chance to examine the rest of the space.It was a dance studio. Hence, Gwendolyn was changing, assuming she had privacy and that she was alone.

The air was still. The silence, pervasive. Harry was reluctant to move. The sunlight beamed softy through the panes of glass as the dust motes caught light and sparkled briefly through its rays. The hushed ambience made the moment personal, almost secretive. He felt like he was intruding on her solitary space. Granted, it was partly true. Confirming now that her outings were benign, the agent in him insisted that he return to Kingsman, however, the man in him convinced himself to remain and observe.

She was standing at the far side of the studio, but he had a full view of her as she shrugged off her vest. Her cape was already laid neatly across the bar so as not to crease. Her own shoulder holster was also draped over the bar. Spy habits were hard to break. She had removed her gun and placed it discreetly underneath her shoes. They were lined up, one next to the other, against the wall, stockings neatly tucked in each. The gun was hidden, but easily accessible. The bow at her throat fell in two long lengths of silk as she pulled one side loose from its knot. Carefully unbuttoning the cuff of one sleeve and then the next, her energy felt unhurried. Her fingers moved down the front of her blouse, unbuttoning each button along the way. She pulled out the tail from the waistband of her skirt. Even though she was the entire length of the room away, he felt as if he were standing next to her, or even closer. His mind’s eye magnified these small, private moments into close ups.

Gwendolyn was turned slightly away from him, fussing with the buckles that secured her kilt, as well as the large pin that closed the overlap. In this state of semi dress, in this environment that was so unlike all of Kingsman, she seemed like she was a character in a play, rather than the woman spy she was. He was studying her through the windows of a different lifetime. One that did not involve Kingsman, guns, secret agents and death. Rarely, against his better judgement, he stayed in place. He was a spy after all. This is what spies did.

The kilt fell to the floor. As she bent down to pick it up, the tails of her blouse protected her modesty. She folded the wool tartan over the rest of her clothing.The anxiety of not knowing where the situation was heading left Harry unsteady, seeing as she hadn’t brought anything with her to change into.His breath caught in his throat and was held there by uncertainty.

Ahhh, he breathed out, relieved.

As she slipped the blouse from her shoulders, Harry saw that underneath her clothing, she wore a basic dancer’s leotard. Black. It was cut in an enticing silhouette, but modest enough for her needs. Narrow straps looped over each shoulder down to a low scooped back. The front was a simple v-neck that gathered slightly at her sternum. It was the essential uniform of dancers worldwide. Without her suit or the clothing that acted as a safeguard for Kingsman agents, she resurfaced as a different person all together. Akin to seeing a soldier for the first time in civvies, he doubted he would have recognised her if he hadn’t witnessed her transformation.

Although this episode wasn’t sexual in nature, Harry underwent the same waves of sensation as Gwendolyn had during their incident together in the lounge. He was the one watching her, yet he felt traces of vulnerability, as if parts of him were also exposed and being observed. He was flooded with a liquid heat that he was unable to stop or control. He should pull away, but Harry knew he could not, were he to make an attempt.

Harry might have well been frozen where he stood. The sight of her, viewed from an entirely different set of circumstances, captivated him. He was unable to avert his gaze. She was the quicksand that held him place. Seemingly innocent and unassuming, but with the smallest misstep, could draw a man down to unknown depths. Resisting or fighting only made one sink faster and deeper. This time, Gwendolyn was the seducer and Harry was the seduced.

Unseen pressure pushed and pulled against him. He struggled, knowing that as a gentleman he should leave. But as a man witnessing an object of desire, he had to stay. It was a weight on his chest. It commandeered him and prevented him from acting. The sight of her and the image she created, lit by streams of the late afternoon sun, exposed the barriers that he had built up. Leaving the walls that protected him vulnerable to the inevitable losses he would continue to face. But even this threat was not enough to make him walk away.

Gwendolyn lowered herself to the floor and sat down with the soles of feet together in a butterfly position. She unhooked the clasp holding back her hair, ruffling and shaking it loose from its original shape until it flowed freely. She gathered it up at the base of her neck as if she were making a ponytail, but instead twisted it around to the front of her chest, running her fingers through it to comb out any tangles. When she was done, she simply let the coiled sheaf of hair drape over the front of her shoulder. It covered one clavicle, the ends hanging almost down to her ribcage. It was already unfurling when she peered down at her phone. Her fingers tapped and swiped until the studio’s sound system stuttered to life. The speakers must be on bluetooth for her to have access. She adjusted the volume to something a little louder than average, as one does when one wants to, not only hear the music, but experience it as well.

After lengthening and breathing through a few basic stretches on the ground, Gwendolyn rolled over her hips and pushed off the floor to a standing position in the effortless way dancers have. What seemed to be a single, graceful, fluid motion was actually the coordination of every single muscle, every action in her body, from the way she pointed her toes to how she floated her fingertips in her the air. Her hair followed, trailing just behind her, like the end of a song resonating in the distance.

It was lighter than he expected, Harry thought, as her music filtered through the speakers. Music was a very personal choice, unique and distinctive from one person to the next. Like a fingerprint, it could be a clue to one’s identity.What one chose to listen to could reveal more about them than spending an afternoon in conversation.He was expecting something heavy, weighty, something dark and dramatic. A soundtrack that would pair with someone coming from a harrowing past, with a present defined by risk, and facing an indeterminate future. But Gwendolyn surprised him. The music was beautiful and bittersweet. Like the sound of sunlight, breaking through clouds of mist on a grey morning, catching reflections on dark water. Or like the echo of the afternoon sun as it streamed through windows, golden and sparkling with dust motes, throwing warm shadows on a cold floor.

It was wistful. It was the sound of yearning that was not quite needy, just shy of hopeful, and underscored with melancholy. Her music, while he did not specifically recognise the songs or the artists, he was familiar with its intention. He recognised the sound and understood why it appealed to her, how it could evoke movement. It was emotive. Poignant. For someone who had spent most of her lifetime masking or hiding emotions, listening to music must be a way of conveying what she could not express otherwise. Harry experienced music in the same way.

Gwendolyn moved intuitively, without a definitive style, but Harry could recognise different schools of dance. The line of her neck, to her shoulder, to her arm and then to her hand, to the tips of her fingers, drifted with the curves and the elegance of ballet, but she was free of its structure. Her pirouettes turned into shapes that loosened, became fluid with the creativity and expression found in modern, urban and contemporary. But most of all, it was just her moving with one shape flowing seamlessly in to the next. The curves of her body, her limbs followed in lines that were natural and organic.

This wasn’t a routine or a performance. She was not practicing moves or working on technique. When Gwendolyn was in Kingsman’s training hall, every exercise or drill was designed to make her stronger, faster, more agile, more flexible, to build endurance. It was almost strange to see her moving freely, independent of practice, free from the hardness, the set to her jaw, her brow furrowed in concentration, eyes narrowed on a target. Free of repetition and the determination to do more and be better.

Harry knew that dancing was one of the most challenging of physical practices, made even harder through the strength, balance, flexibility and coordination required to make it seem effortless. But here, her face and body did not reveal any strain. Throughout her effort, her face remained soft, calm, without edge. Like an expression that was the same as sunlight peeking through grey mist. Her entire body moved in a way he could feel. It was stripped down and raw, but in a way he had not anticipated. It was being in motion for the sake of moving above all else. Because one had to. Because it stirred the heart. When was the last time he experienced or enjoyed something purely for its own sake? Unfortunately, though one could argue the point, drinking scotch, he mused, did not count.

As he watched her pirouette, Harry caught her gaze reflected in the mirror. He had inched out farther than he intended so he could follow as she danced out of view from the window. After he had confirmed there was nothing suspicious, he relaxed the outer edges of his surveillance and fell into her line of sight. Her peripheral must be excellent, judging that she had spotted him from a far distance, past a pane of glass, only by reflection when he was supposed to be out of view.

Every agent dreaded this moment. Harry had been made. Luckily, for him, the only blowback would be from Gwendolyn. Or perhaps unluckily, in light of the context. Nevertheless, there was no further need to remain hidden. He pushed open the doors to meet her and explain his presence. He experienced a sensation that was as close to chagrin as he had ever felt. On top of feeling oddly nervous.

Upon seeing him, see her, Gwendolyn let her last rotation leisurely spin out until she came to a halt. Walking over to her phone, she reached down to lower the volume before stepping across the dance floor to meet him halfway. He looked expectedly incongruous with the dance studio in his Kingsman suit, one of the rare times she had ever seen him even slightly self conscious and uneasy with his surroundings. As witness to his discomfiture, she found it rather endearing.

While she approached, Gwendolyn gathered her hair and twisted it around to the front of her shoulder as she had done before. She brushed away sweat that had gathered at her brow with the back of her hand.Placing her palms on her hips, she adopted a casual stance. Barefoot, without her heels, she stood several inches shorter, meaning she had to look up at him just a bit more than usual. She addressed him as she ordinarily would.

“Agent Galahad.” she breathed out, still catching her air after her exertions. “What brings you here? I wasn’t expecting to see you.” 

The understatement was casual and she seemed unperturbed by his presence. As if seeing him in these surroundings was a normal occurrence. Harry followed her lead and adopted his own relaxed air of nonchalance by placing his hands in his pockets. 

“What was that?” He queried, nodding his chin toward the mirrors. “What were you doing just now?” There was an easy carelessness to his voice that he did not feel.

“You mean dancing?” Obviously, Gwendolyn thought, but did not say. Quiet, she tilted her head to the side and scanned him closely through narrowed eyes, searching his face for the expression he was trying to mask by hiding it behind his indifference.She blinked her grey eyes at him. To Harry, it appeared as if she were peering up at him through her long lashes.

“Nothing questionable, if that’s your concern.” She added, hinting that she knew he was searching for some type of suspect behaviour. She did not provide further explanation or add to her statement and left him to decide where to steer the course of the conversation.

“Where did you learn how to dance?” Harry was quite dedicated to avoiding the topic of suspicion. He diverted the tone just as she would when discussing something that she did not care for.

Gwendolyn dropped her eyes, apparently debating what to say next. Her chest rose and fell with a gentle sigh. She took a breath in and responded.

“When I was sent away,” Her words were spoken quietly and plainly. She lifted her grey eyes to meet his brown. In the space between seconds, she decided on the truth. “There were many things that I learned that I was very good at, but there were very few things that I actually enjoyed. All female agents were trained in dance, mostly for poise and posture, use for social situations, approaching a mark, honeypots, things of that nature…”

Gwendolyn was looking away and did not notice when the mention of honeypots briefly jarred Harry’s calm demeanour.

“But I found that I actually enjoyed it.” Her surprise at this memory was written on her face. Her weight shifted with her shifting thoughts. “It was one of the rare times where I didn’t wish I was somewhere else or someone else.”

There was a quality about Harry that compelled her to continue. An urge that she was not accustomed to. Perhaps it was the softening of his gaze, or the way the sun reflected the kindness in his eyes.Whatever it was, she wanted to put it in a box and carefully store it away where she filed the rest of her observations of the man, but she was unable to think of a suitable label so it remained undefined. Gwendolyn decided to share something personal. Her movements stopped and she faced him in the same way she spoke, direct and forthright. Her shoulders dropped and then relaxed. Her eyes rested on his, but there was a distance that told Harry part of her was no longer here with him, she was in a place she had long since left behind.

“When I was dancing,” she said quietly, “I didn’t have to think about anything else. I suppose…,” she hesitated for the briefest span of time, and unlike her words, a wistful quality that was not quite sadness washed over her face. Thoughtfully, she finished, “that’s how I recalled what it was like to feel happy.”

Under the impression that she shared a fraction more than she should have, she backed off a little both in her speech and her bearing. Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “So, I find myself here.”

She had given something of herself away. As small as it was, the collection of a few short sentences, simple and matter of fact, revealed more about her than almost anything else she had said or done since she arrived at Kingsman.

“I can understand.” His deep voice filled the empty space of the studio. Harry was touched by her honesty. “It was quite lovely.” 

The personal nature of the compliment made the space smaller, warmer, more intimate. Gwendolyn felt the need to reintroduce a sense of formality back into the situation.

“Thank you, Agent Galahad.”

“Please, call me Harry. As we are not on Kingsman time at the moment.” he explained.

Gwendolyn paused.Harry felt her eyes, her senses, exploring his words, the tone of his voice, her inquisitiveness scanning the features of his face, trying to discern what was underneath. He had been moved, but in what way, she could not tell. Finally, she met his gaze, fully present and aware of the handsome man that stood before her.

“Thank you, Harry.” She said in return. The shape of her lips as she pronounced his given name was a sight that he had to restrain himself from staring at too long.So he blinked, forcing himself to look away, and for a split second, when he closed his eyes, her voice was a sound that played along the surface of his skin.

“I’ll leave you be.” Always the gentleman, he bowed slightly in her direction before he turned away. His Oxfords echoed muted footsteps on the dance floor.

As Harry approached the door, Gwendolyn called out to him. Turning over his shoulder, he saw her gaze fall on his reflection in the mirror. Her fingertips rested on the wooden ballet bar, one leg was turned out in second position, her long leg lengthened away from her, toes pointed, hair falling down her back. A deadly spy in a demi point tendu, Harry thought in mild wonder.

“If you don’t mind,” she asked sincerely and without a hint of irony or sarcasm, “Upon your return to the shop, would you be so kind as to tell the tailors that the hidden pockets in my coat need to be large enough to hold at least two extra magazines?”

With an almost absentminded reflex, she extended her leg so her toe traced an arc from her side to her front and rested in a devant, first tendu.

“Each with a 15 round capacity?” Pointedly, she added, “I failed to include it in my note.”

This time, Gwendolyn did not let her eye contact falter. 

Harry started for a moment, hesitated briefly, seemingly amused and surprised at the same time. She had anti-surveilled him. He nodded imperceptibly. Gwendolyn had watched him watching her without letting him know that she was on to him. Recovering smoothly, “Of course,” he replied. “It would be my pleasure.”

It was the first time she was relaxed enough to take the mickey out of him. Even before she stepped out of the shop, she had known Harry was tailing her. And she had never let on, nor betrayed the slightest hint that she knew he was following her. He shook his head inwardly. Of course she had been aware. Of course.

As Harry look his leave, he captured a glimpse of Gwendolyn’s smile just before she lowered her gaze and turned away. The sunlight brushed through strands of her hair and hinted at the barest upturn of the corners of her mouth. It wasn’t a smile for him. This smile was for herself. An expression of being pleased that she couldn’t help but show on her face. It lit up her whole being. It might have been the most captivating sight he had ever had the pleasure to witness.

His own smile, as he descended the steps of Burlington House and headed back to Saville Row, was almost identical in nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at plot. Basically I needed to reveal Harry had experienced some compromising missions in the past and to know that Gwendolyn was able to dance.....

**Author's Note:**

> Look for future posts :) If you made it this far, thanks for reading! Feedback is always helpful and much appreciated. If you have a chance, would love to hear your thoughts!


End file.
